Because You Loved Me
by Mishka67
Summary: If you prefer that I think of you first and foremost only as my queen, I shall oblige. . . . Or at least make a darn good attempt. NOTE: Rating change to be safe for future chapters. It will probably be more along the lines of T plus, if that makes se
1. For all the times you stood by me

Author's Note: Although I've only recently begun reading PD fanfic, I've noticed that King Rupert seems to get a bad rap in a lot of stories. Surely the guy couldn't be that bad, right?

One night (after I'd had PD 2 on for background noise for the better part of a weekend) Joseph stopped by this great little sidewalk café I have operating in a back corner of my mind. Lots of my favorite movie, TV, and book characters drop in there from time to time. Some become regulars, some just try out the latte and move on. Joseph stayed to chat for a while. Eventually, we got around to the fact that he feels the same way about Rupert's reputation. Then Joseph started telling me all about the way it was with Rupert. And with Pierre. And with Philippe. And, of course, with Clarisse. How could I not listen to him? I had to be polite, you know. And then Clarisse dropped by and . . . well, my manners mattered even more.

One thing led to another and before you know you it my brain was feeling ticklish and my fingers were getting itchy. Many of you are, no doubt, familiar with those feelings. It was only a matter of time before the story began to form. And it took only a little prodding from Joseph (who has become quite the regular, thank you very much!) before the beginning of the story was more or less ready to share. I'm not quite sure how long it will go on; so much depends on the size of one's coffee pot.

It should go without saying that I have no rights to Joseph or any of his friends from the movie (the original characters are mine); I just give him virtual coffee. I also have no rights to the lyrics of the song I'm using for chapter titles. I just realized that they "fit" the story after I'd written six or seven scenes.

Hopefully, you will enjoy. And then you will review, and we'll all have lots of fun together as this takes shape.

One quick linguistic note: I do not now, nor have I ever spoken Spanish. I'm relying on an online translator for a few words. I did take French in school, but that was decades ago, so again that translator is getting a workout. If I err and offend, I apologize.

Glossary for chapter 1: hermanos brothers; cállese shut up; rico rich

* * *

**Because You Loved Me**

_For all those times you stood by me . . ._

**1979**

He was doing it again.

It seemed he was always doing it lately. It hadn't been that way at first, but for the last few months the new Royal Head of Security had gotten downright annoying.

Clarisse was accustomed to people not making eye contact with her. After twenty years in the palace she was quite familiar with that odd holdover from medieval times. Most people would look slightly to one side or at a nearby piece of furniture; a few looked at their own feet, but they would at least still talk in her general direction – at her, if not _to _her or _with _her.

This old friend Rupert had recently installed as Head of Security was completely different. He never looked at her any more – except when she wasn't watching. Clarisse never actually saw him looking at her, but she could _feel_ his eyes on her. And then she could just as clearly feel his gaze shift whenever she turned toward him. And somehow, even when she knew he wasn't looking at her, it still felt as though he was studying her in minute detail. She couldn't recall just when his "not looking" had changed from being just like everyone else to being something radically different.

Mentioning it to Rupert would accomplish nothing. He was absolutely convinced, for reasons he would never discuss, that the man was unwaveringly loyal. Perhaps she could turn his own game around and stare him down. If she stared at him long enough, maybe he would get the point. No, no, that would never do for the queen to be staring moodily at anyone; people would talk. She would have to be more circumspect. Perhaps she could catch him passing in a corridor and engage him in conversation. Good heavens, no, what would the staff think? He rarely assigned himself to her personal guard detail; he spent most of his days at Rupert's side, or occasionally one of the boys', so her opportunities were limited. And wasn't that odd? He really didn't spend that much time in her company, so why did it seem he was always watching her?

He was doing it now, the "not looking." He was standing with Rupert at the mouth of an alley next to the new community center they were here to open. The community centers had become a pet project of Rupert's since his coronation. He was genuinely inspired to improve living conditions for all of Genovia's citizens. This particular neighborhood had been among the worst for many years, but time, attention, and no small amount of money from the royal treasury were slowly altering the local landscape.

There! Just as she looked at him he turned to stare intently at a garbage can in the alley, and yet she would swear he was still watching her. He was speaking to Rupert again, several meters away from where she stood in the shade, and yet . . .

* * *

Joseph shrugged to adjust the fit of his black leather jacket across his shoulders as he surveyed the crowd. It would be so much easier if the King would confine himself to the palace and secure indoor settings, but this king had always been one to push the envelope. Rupert was a risk-taker, no doubt about that.

Taking a quick risk of his own, Joseph allowed his gaze to settle oh so briefly on Queen Clarisse. She was perfection, as always. Did Rupert know just how lucky he was? She lifted her eyes to his and he turned smoothly away, as though his eyes had only rested on her momentarily as he assessed the surroundings. Where to look now? Ah, that trash can over there was most unusual . . .

He grinned tightly, acutely conscious of the Queen's pensive gaze, and leaned forward as Rupert spoke.

"Does it take you back, Joe? Being here?" The king chucked Joseph lightly in the stomach.

"Indeed, sir," Joseph replied. "But perhaps not the most promising beginning to a life of public service."

"Do you think so? Because we wouldn't be here at all if not for you."

Joseph raised his eyebrows; startled at the credit he was being given. Not that King Rupert was one to hog glory in anything; he just rarely mentioned their friendship's basis in so public a setting. Joseph shook his head slightly, his eyes drawn once more to Rupert's queen. Then again maybe their meeting had been more auspicious than he'd thought. It had been this very alley . . .

**1947**

He'd been about seven, perhaps eight, and had spent the late afternoon running from his older brother's gang of fourteen year-old cutthroats. It seemed they'd always chased him for some reason or another. Had he deserved it that day?

As dusk fell he'd ducked into the alley to escape Claude, one of his brother's worst, intending to run full out and jump the locked gate at the back of Senor Gutierrez' butcher shop. Instead he'd tripped on something slick and cloying and probably dead. He stumbled forward, bumped off of a trash can, and sprawled face down atop an older boy huddled against the alley wall.

"Hey!" the other boy yelled, pushing him off.

"Shh!" Joseph whispered intently. "They'll hear."

"Who?" the boy demanded curtly.

"Hermanos." Joseph regarded the other boy with scorn. "Don't you know anything?"

"More than you, you little . . ."

"Cállese!" Joseph muttered, glancing to the mouth of the alley. He looked the boy over quickly and made his decision. "Come on! You help me; I'll help you, rich boy."

Joseph hauled the older boy to his feet and directed him to boost him over the butcher's gate. His shirt hiked up his stomach as he scrambled over – it would have been better with a running start – and he scraped his left side on a protruding nail.

"It stinks in here!" The older boy said as he landed in a crouch, holding his nose tightly.

"Butcher shop," Joseph wheezed. He gently lowered himself to the blood-spattered cement as he cradled his left side.

"So these 'Hermanos'? Your brothers?" The boy settled himself to the ground beside Joseph. "Are you hurt?"

"My brother's gang. I'm fine." Joseph inhaled deeply, determined not to show any weakness.

"His gang? As in criminals? In Pyrus?" The older boy seemed genuinely shocked.

"We can't all have pastries and ponies all day." Joseph glared at his companion. "How did you get here?"

"My father . . ." he trailed off. "He's completely unreasonable! And I outgrew _ponies _when I was your age."

"How did you get here?" Joseph demanded again. "And why?"

"Pretty direct, aren't you?" he replied with a cocky grin. "I could ask you the same thing. You were running from them; I was just . . . uh, resting. I got lost. Why were you running?" The young man leaned back against the wooden gate.

Joseph shifted so the streetlight above him shone fully on his cohort's face. He studied the boy carefully. "What's your name?" he asked softly, hesitantly.

"Get out! Get out, you young hooligans!" The butcher's voice rose over the clatter of his door.

Joseph jumped to his feet as more light spilled out the back door of the shop. "Senor Gutierrez! It's me. It's just me!"

"Oh . . . oh . . . running again, Joseph?" The old man rested a hand on Joseph's head. "Well, you'd best come inside for a while, my boy. Who's your friend?" he asked, eyeing the other boy suspiciously.

Joseph looked uncertainly from the old man to the boy he'd taken under his protection. The butcher glared at them both, clearly demanding an answer.

"The Hermanos were chasing him, too," Joseph blurted out quickly. I couldn't just leave him there."

The older boy seemed about to speak when all three were moved to silence by angry voices coming from the other side of the alley gate.

The butcher hushed the boys with a gesture and rattled his gate. "Away, away, you hoodlums, or I call the police!"

"Someday, old man, someday we come for you!" Joseph shrunk into himself as he recognized his brother Diego's voice out of the darkness. He heaved a deep sigh as he heard the teens run off.

"So," Senor Gutierrez turned toward them, "your friend's name, Joseph?"

"His name's Rico," Joseph interjected before his companion could reply. "Rico," he stated again more firmly as he dashed through the back door.

The older boy looked briefly puzzled, but didn't argue.

They traipsed through the back rooms of the butcher shop and passed through a plain wooden door. They emerged into a small sitting room that had very little room available for sitting. There were books everywhere – on the shelves that lined every wall, stacked high on low tables, and stacked even higher on the floor behind a battered loveseat and chair. Two small windows looked out on the modest, and, Joseph noted thankfully, empty street. The old man invited them to sit.

"I think we'll be okay in a few minutes, Senor," Joseph insisted. "Rico really needs to get back -- back home. I think his father might be getting worried."

"I think you may be right," Gutierrez added thoughtfully as the boy came fully into the light from his single lamp. "Perhaps you should help this young man find his way home."

"I don't think I know the way," Joseph protested weakly.

"Nonsense! I took you there myself just last week." He rested one hand lightly on each boy's hand, as though in benediction. "I'm sure your friend here can help find the way once you get close. Go along now, but stay out of sight as much as you can."

"Umm . . ." Rico looked around uncertainly.

"There's nothing to fear, _Rico_," Gutierrez said softly, emphasizing the name. "You're welcome under my roof any time."

"Ah, thank you, sir, thank you. You know who I . . . You know?" He held his hand out to the old man, ill at ease, and struggling to find a proper response.

"We may not be rich, but we aren't stupid!" Joseph thumped him in the stomach.

"Enough of that, young Del Lago," the butcher scolded. He scowled at Joseph from beneath his heavy brow. "Help our young friend find his way home."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Rico asked as Joseph led him through the seedy side of Pyrus.

"Just a scratch," Joseph said off-handedly. "My brother's come home with worse."

"Oh, well . . . sorry about that," Rico offered as they dashed across a dimly lit courtyard.

"Don't be."

"I've often wished I had a brother," Rico murmured, slowing his pace as they approached less danger-ridden neighborhoods.

"You can have mine," Joseph muttered. "Maybe he'd be nicer to your mother than he is to ours."

They arrived shortly at a stone wall marking the boundaries of the grounds of the Genovian Royal Palace. Rico led Joseph along the wall, running his hands carefully over the wall's surface.

"It's here somewhere," he said.

Then his fingers grasped what appeared to be a defect in one of the blocks and twisted it to reveal a small door leading to an underground tunnel. Joseph raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Secret passages." Rico chuckled. "The palace is covered with them." He moved toward the door.

"Well, good luck, Prince Rupert." Joseph offered the boy his hand.

"So you really did know, huh?"

"There're hundreds of pictures of your family all over town – even in my neighborhood."

"Guess I'll need a disguise next time then." He winked as he ducked through the entrance.

"Well, you know where to find me, Your Highness." Joseph called and the young prince turned back. "I'll show you around." Joseph stretched on his toes, hoping to look taller than his seven years.

"Call me . . ." The prince looked thoughtful. "Call me . . . Rico, amigo." He took the little boy's hand warmly but gravely. "Does my guide and protector have a name?"

"Joseph Del Lago," he answered solemnly. "You can call me Joe."


	2. For all the truth that you made me see

_For all the truth that you made me see . . ._

**1980**

"Rupert?" Clarisse raised her voice slightly, hoping to break through her husband's reverie. "Rupert, did you hear me?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, Clarisse. Of course." He looked at his breakfast plate as though completely unaware he'd nearly finished eating.

Clarisse smiled indulgently. She'd grown rather fond of his fits of absent-mindedness over the years. It was so much fun to gently out him. "And what do you think of my proposal?" she asked quietly, yet pointedly.

She watched Rupert glance around the room surreptitiously. The wait staff had retired for the moment, and Jorge, Rupert's personal secretary, had not yet made his morning report. There was just Joseph, standing near the door as always – not looking at her, as always. The back of her neck prickled; she really must find a solution to the puzzle of Joseph Del Lago. Yet, regardless of her personal feelings about the man, Rupert was completely at ease in his presence. He would take her ribbing with grace.

"All right, all right," he said, chuckling, "you've caught me. Just what was your proposal?" He set his knife and fork down precisely on the edges of his plate and looked at her expectantly.

"Pierre is eighteen, leaving for university in a matter of weeks. Philippe will be sixteen next month . . ." she began.

"Really? I hadn't noticed. How remarkable!"

Clarisse smiled at Rupert's self-deprecation over his tendency to become preoccupied. "Rupert," she continued more seriously, "it's time we started thinking about grandchildren."

"Pierre is still a boy," he insisted. "It will be years before he ascends the throne."

"I certainly hope so." She reached across the table to him, squeezing his hand. "But after what happened last year . . ."

"Things are different now," he replied too quickly for her comfort, though comfort was surely what he hoped to convey. "Joe will protect me. I can count on him."

She glanced at Joseph, who regarded her warily and dipped his head slowly in apparent recognition of Rupert's vote of confidence. But he had actually met her gaze and held it. That was a first! She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment more. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, then Joseph's soul was tightly shuttered against the worst possible storm. She saw Rupert's certainty reflected in Joseph, to be sure, a fierceness she hoped was the loyalty her husband credited him with, perhaps even friendship for his sovereign. But there was more, so much more that she could not see and yet knew lurked just behind the shutters – a secret, a terrible, dark secret.

"Give them some time, Clarisse." Rupert's voice called her back from her contemplation of his friend. "Go ahead and begin looking about – quietly, mind you – but give them a few more years to enjoy."

"I see . . ." Clarisse shifted in her chair and eyed her husband thoughtfully. "Yes, yes, perhaps you're right," she added ruefully.

"Clarisse, I didn't mean . . ." Rupert reached for her as she rose from the table.

"It's all right, Rupert," she assured him. "I know what you meant. And what you didn't mean. You've been wonderful. But perhaps our sons can have, well, more – Philippe, at least." She smiled softly and kissed his cheek.

Sacre vache! She had looked right at him and he'd stared back. How stupid was that? Could she see? Did she know what he was allowing to grow deep in the innermost garden of his soul? Did Rupert know?

No, he couldn't possibly. There was that, at least. But did that lessen his guilt or heighten it? Was it less wrong to covet another man's wife if that man didn't entirely have her anyway? And if ever Joseph had wondered about the exact nature of Clarisse's private relationship with her husband, today's exchange had set those musings to rest. They both wanted more for their sons. Did she ever think about having more for herself?

He kept his gaze tightly focused on Rupert's fork as she glided past him. He did not, would not, dared not look at her, and yet he saw and sensed everything about her. The way the sunlight filtered through the windows and set her golden hair ablaze. The way she suppressed her sad smile as she reached the door. The way her dress of palest peach swirled about her legs. And most of all, the way the very air stirred by her passing swept around him and through him, warming his heart and aching his soul.

And she was arranging her sons' marriages already? Rupert had always had a problem with that concept . . .

**1950**

Joseph had walked into Sal's boxing gym, next door to the butcher shop, and found sixteen year-old Rico pounding a heavy bag into submission. Even at ten, Joseph was a fixture in the gym. Sal was a cousin of Senor Gutierrez and between them the two men had taken Joseph under their collective wing. As the years had passed and Rico's visits became frequent, the two men had circumspectly mentored their prodigal prince as well.

"Hey, chico rico!" Joseph called as he approached his friend. "Leave some of that bag for me."

Rico sagged against the swaying bag, suddenly spent. "Not 'hey,' Joe. Say 'hello' or 'good morning.' Manners matter – or so I've been told." He said the last with a slightly scornful sneer.

"You sound like Senor G." Joseph laughed. "Why do I have to have manners? I don't even like girls yet."

Rico snorted and clapped his young friend on the shoulder. "Don't even talk to me about girls! But you're going to need those manners anyway. You and I are going places together, Joe."

"That's right, we are," Joseph agreed. "Right now, we're going next door. Senor G's sister is here from Madrid and she always brings all different kinds of galletas. You have to have some!"

"You go," he said, eyeing Diego and Claude heckling a struggling boxer in the ring. "I'll be along in a few minutes." Rico turned back to the bag, attacking it with renewed energy.

After the cookies and an early supper had been consumed, Gutierrez escorted his young charges into his tiny, book-cluttered sitting room.

"Joseph, here's your assignment for the week," he said, handing the boy a heavy tome.

"I have to finish it this week?" Joseph was aghast.

"You're giving him Malory already?" Rico asked, almost equally stunned. "Isn't he still a little young for that?"

"Joseph doesn't have the same advantages you do, Rico," Senor Gutierrez explained. "There are two ways out of this neighborhood for him. He can either fight his way out or educate his way out. I would prefer he gets out with as few bruises as possible."

"But you don't have to worry about that," Rico protested. "You know I'll help him. I'll take care of him, Senor."

"_Him_ **is** in the room," Joseph interjected petulantly.

"Rico didn't mean to offend you, Joseph." Their mentor tapped the book on the boy's knee. "But you," he looked from one boy to the other, "like Rico, will want to know that your successes are the result of your own hard work, not because they were handed to you. So, this week, Sir Thomas Malory. Enjoy."

"And me, sir?" Rico asked.

"Plato. An understanding of the Greeks is vital."

"I've done the Greek philosophers with my tutors, Senor G." Rupert slumped in his chair.

"Ah! But you have not done them with me, sir. I suggest you review." The old man smiled warmly and winked at him from beneath his shaggy brow. "Remember, _all_ rulers really do rule at the consent of the governed."

Joseph leaned forward eagerly. In the nearly three years since _Rico_ had been sneaking out to visit the worst neighborhood in Genovia, they had rarely referred to his position. He seemed to want to escape palace life, not lord it over his subjects – and certainly not over his friends. And yet Joseph was fascinated with what life must be like behind the palace walls. The lights, the food, the books, the fast cars King Christophe fancied, the swords, the flags -- it must be such an exciting life. But maybe for Rico it was dull, otherwise why would he leave it so often?

"Senor G," Rico began tentatively, "have you ever been married?"

"Yes," the old man said softly. "She died in the War."

"Was she fighting with the French Resistance?" Joseph asked eagerly. His own father had died helping the Resistance when he was little. Senor G's war stories were always a treat.

"The Great War," Gutierrez clarified. "We used to live in a small fishing village near Mertz and one night soldiers came . . . I wasn't there." The old man sighed deeply and nodded as though shrugging off old wounds.

"Did you love her very much?" Rico pressed.

"I did." He stared out the window at the setting sun. Joseph sensed that Senor G still loved his dead wife very much, but didn't really want to talk about her. For several moments the three sat in companionable, respectful silence.

"I met my wife this week," Rico stated flatly.

"You're married?" Joseph blurted out. Senor Gutierrez hushed him with a gesture.

"Not yet, but my mother and father have picked her out. Her family's come to visit. It won't be announced officially for a few years, but it's all arranged." He slumped further back into his chair.

"Your _mother_ picked out your wife for you?" Joseph asked, puzzled. "My mother doesn't even pick out my shirt for me . . . well, sometimes for Mass on Sunday. Why don't you get to choose?"

"Joseph," Senor G interrupted with a cautionary look. "Never disrespect your mother. She works very hard to support you and your brother."

"I have a responsibility, Joseph," Rico explained, "to Genovia. I have to have an heir and that's not something I'm allowed to leave to chance. I'm kind of scared of her though," he admitted ruefully. "She's only ten, but she's such a klutz, she'll probably kill me before we ever get around to the getting an heir business. You should have seen her last night! She managed to demolish a 600 year-old suit of armor and a suckling pig all in one fell swoop! But she won't talk to me at all. I guess maybe she's scared of me, too."

"You're not that scary," Joseph chided. "Maybe your parents don't know what's best for you. If she doesn't even have enough courage to talk to you . . ."

"Maybe," Rico mused. "So, Senor G, any good advice about bolstering up my courage – or hers?"

"Courage?" The old man paused and gave the boys the full benefit of his pensive, wrinkled brow. "Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important. What is important to you, my boy?"


	3. For all the joy you brought to my life

_For all the joy you brought to my life . . ._

**1983**

"Father, please try to understand!" their son, Pierre, implored. "I have a calling." He was obviously trying very hard to remain calm, but Rupert and Pierre had always had a rocky relationship.

"A calling?" the King mocked. "You are twenty-one years of age. You have a duty, sir. A duty to Genovia!"

Noting the color rising in Rupert's cheeks, Clarisse rose from her seat near the window and moved closer to father and son. She didn't want to intervene, but neither did she want to see this come to blows. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Joseph standing a bit more lightly on his feet as well. After almost five years in the palace, most of it at the side of the King or the soon-to-be invested Crown Prince, he could certainly read their moods. She saw Joseph lean toward Pierre, then evidently think better of it.

He cleared his throat. "The car is waiting, Your Majesty. We'll be late."

"Hmpf!" Rupert grunted. "The King is never late."

"Of course, sir," Joseph said in his flat, yet oddly soothing voice, "I had forgotten."

"Forgotten? You seem to have forgotten that this is MY son." Rupert turned the force of his frustration to Joseph. "My son, who wishes to hide himself in a monastery instead of taking up his responsibilities to his people." He waved his hands, dismissing Pierre. "We will discuss this more later. Let's go," he added to Joseph.

As the two men strode down the corridor, Clarisse heard Joseph's soft and intense voice. "Rico, with all due respect, you do have two sons. The boy doesn't mean to hurt you."

Pierre settled heavily into the chair Clarisse had recently vacated. "It'll be all right, Mother," he whispered. "Joe will fix it."

"I beg your pardon?" Clarisse eyed her son speculatively. After nearly five years she was no closer to solving the mystery of Joseph Del Lago. The thought that her son might have a piece of the puzzle was surprising. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"If there's anyone that Father will listen to," Pierre explained, "it's Joe."

"Why does he call your father 'Rico'?" she asked suddenly.

"You don't know?" At her negative shake of the head, he continued glumly, "Me either, I was hoping someone did. He always changes the subject when I ask him."

"You and Joseph . . . talk?"

"From time to time," Pierre responded, rather evasively she thought.

She mulled that development over. She had never considered Joseph apart from Rupert. Certainly he did occasionally accompany one of the boys. He had escorted Pierre to his university quarters each term and routinely checked in on security matters there. And surely he must have some sort of social obligations – friends, a family even? And yet she had never before considered it. He was so intrinsically tied up with Rupert in her mind. Did he even live in the palace or in town? It suddenly troubled her that she didn't know even the most basic facts about the man. Except, of course, that he was always watching her, and yet . . . not.

Clarisse knelt carefully before her son, taking his hands. "Pierre, I want you to be happy, you must know that."

He nodded slowly, taking a deep breath.

"But your investiture as Crown Prince is next week," she bargained. "Could you not at least try, for your father's sake?"

"It would be a lie, Mother," he quietly explained. "I can't do that."

"Could you not serve God as a King as well as you could as a priest?" She struggled to keep her voice calm and even. Oddly, she was quite proud of Pierre for standing his ground with Rupert, for being true to himself and his calling, even if he was abandoning the duty she had drilled into him from the cradle.

"Maybe someone else could, Mother, but I think it would break me to try." He looked deeply into her eyes as though begging her – what, understanding, forgiveness, acceptance? "Have you ever wanted something so badly, it was like you could smell it with every fiber of your being, and it smelled better than anything you've ever even imagined eating, but you weren't allowed to taste it? That's what it's been like."

"I guess . . . I guess not," she answered, rather lamely to her own ears.

"Philippe will make a far better king, Mother." He patted her hand and rose. She stood beside him, placing her hand along his cheek.

"But I will miss _you_, Pierre," she said softly.

She settled once more into the chair by the window when Pierre left. Had she ever felt so passionate about anything? To feel so strongly about something that you would risk the anger of those who love you most must be a wonderful and frightening thing, she thought. And, of course, that was it – she did feel passionately about her children and their futures, she always had. But since no one had ever kept her from them, she hadn't ever felt the kind of ache Pierre seemed to be going through. And she felt quite strongly about her duty to the crown and her people. Fortunately for her, her desires and her duties matched up quite well. And Pierre had been right – Philippe would make a better king, with a bit more training. They would bring him home from his university in America at the end of the next term, enroll him in a school nearby, and begin in earnest. Pierre was far too introspective to be a strong king; he was too much like . . . well, but it was true. He was too much like her, while Philippe definitely favored Rupert in both appearance and temperament. And so it was a very good thing that she had married royalty and not been born to it; the responsibilities of ruling would never come to her.

"Good evening, Your Highness," Joseph welcomed Pierre into the small library near his personal quarters.

"Joe," the prince acknowledged. He wandered about the room for several minutes, periodically glancing at Joseph, who sat by a crackling fire, quietly reading.

"My father hasn't asked for me," Pierre said hesitantly as he chose a volume from the shelf.

"Hmm." Joseph turned a page.

Pierre took an overstuffed chair opposite Joseph and opened his own book. "He did say we would talk more later."

"Hmm." Joseph turned another page and raised an eyebrow.

"Are you going to tell me or do I have to beat it out of you?" Pierre asked with a somewhat plaintive attempt at humor.

"I would invite you try." Joseph closed his book with a loud snap. Pierre jumped, his tome falling forgotten to the floor. Joseph winced, and changed his tack slightly. "How long have you felt this way?" he demanded.

"You know," the prince reminded him, sounding more like a spoiled child than a Crown Prince. "We've talked about it for years."

"Yes, Highness," Joseph insisted. "Nearly every night that we have both spent in this palace you've told me. You've called me from university; you've written copious letters on the subject. You've begged, pleaded, argued, and cajoled me regarding this and countless other matters. Have you ever spoken to your father about it?"

"No . . ." Pierre began, "he wouldn't . . ."

"No! You wait until the investiture ceremony is planned, the announcements made, the invitations sent. How did you expect him to react?"

"I thought you understood. I thought you were my friend." Pierre leaned forward in his chair, suddenly argumentative.

"This isn't about me, Highness!" Joseph all but slammed his book on the low table before him. Seeing the fire in Pierre's eyes, he softened. "Pierre, you may not see your duty to God and country the same way your parents think you should, but you do at least owe them some basic courtesy. In your father's eyes, you are getting ready to publicly abandon him. He needs time to prepare for that."

"But, Philippe . . ." Pierre sat back, somewhat chastened.

"Yes, yes, Philippe will do his part. Of that I have no doubt." Joseph returned his attention to his book. "You should have warned him," he said after a few quiet moments.

"I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted." Joseph answered curtly. "Now," he continued more softly, "which seminary does the archbishop recommend? I'll need to assess security concerns. You might be a priest forever, but you're still a prince, Melchizadek notwithstanding."

"I can go?" Pierre's voice cracked slightly. "I mean, thank you, Joe. I appreciate your help in this matter." He composed himself, taking on as much regal bearing as he could muster.

Joseph chuckled, but genuinely rejoiced to see the delight in the boy's eyes. Not that he felt comfortable looking in those eyes for very long – they were her eyes.

"Well, just remember that when I come to you for confession in a few years," he quipped. "I'll expect a little lenience as compensation." He winked.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Now," Joseph shifted gears, "what's the buzz around the palace tonight?"

"Father's giving Philippe a DeLorean for his birthday next month. That means your job just got a whole lot harder." Pierre retrieved his book from the floor.

"Your father knows what he's doing; a Delorean looks faster than it really is. And by now, Etienne, my favorite mechanic, has disabled a couple of gears. Prince Philippe will be lucky to get his fancy car over 60 km/hr." Joseph dismissed the car with a wave of his book. "What are you reading?"

"T. H. White, The Once and Future King. What about you?"

"The Rise of the Holy Roman Empire. Interesting, yes?"

"Too much coincidence for me," Pierre replied. "I'm going to call it a night, Joe. Thanks again," he added as he reached the door.

Joseph stared into the hallway for several moments after the prince had left. He had been expecting the boy to make an appearance this evening. True, they met often in this small library, but he had anticipated having to help fight this particular battle for Pierre for some months now. Rico didn't understand his son's calling, but in the end, he did respect it. Though Joseph had little doubt that the King's respect would have been far less forthcoming if he hadn't had a spare son in his hip pocket.

But Pierre was going to have to learn to fight his own battles. He was right in a way – things were about to get a lot harder for Joseph. Of course, little could Pierre suspect that Philippe's new car was the smallest of his friend's concerns. With the distraction of the princes removed, Joseph had little faith in his ability to rein in the growing attraction he felt for their mother. The Queen. Another man's wife. His best friend's wife. And it wasn't just attraction. It had started as simple lust – overpowering at times, but more or less manageable. At some point in the last year or so it had become something else, something more. Something a lot like love. It was warmth and affection and liking and a desire to protect and serve. She was rapidly becoming his reason for being – in the palace and on the planet. Just thinking about her now gave him a profound sense of loss – for something he'd never actually had. He had to put an end to it; leave the palace, leave Rico before he did something royally stupid and mangled their friendship beyond all hope of repair.

And still, as always, the first person he wanted to confide in – other than Clarisse herself – was Rico. He was convinced that if he could actually work up the nerve to tell Rico that he was madly, passionately, hopelessly, eternally in love with his wife, then Rico would know what to do. Of course, knowing what to do might involve Joseph being hung from the palace gates. He would almost welcome even that closure. The thought of forty more years of gaping loneliness ahead was fast becoming unbearable. Five years of unintentional torture from Her Majesty was quite enough.

If only he could, in truth, talk to Rico. If he could share his burdens as easily as Rico still did with him, as he himself used to do. He took in his surroundings, grateful to have so many of his own things about him. Leaving would be no easy task, but he and Rico had parted before . . .

**1958**

The day had been incongruously bright and cheerful. Joseph inhaled deeply, almost retching on the lush, moist, flower-scented air. Larks were twittering in the trees behind them; the grass was a deep, truly verdant green; the entire world seemed to rejoice in the sheer exhilaration of being alive. That was wrong. Today should not be bright and cheerful; the world should show more respect.

He held himself together only barely. Of course, he had known it would happen someday, but 'someday' had come all too soon. He schooled his features to inscrutability as the priest exchanged a few words with Sal and prepared for the next stage of the service.

And where was Rico? Why hadn't he come? Joseph had sent word to him at the address Rico had assured would reach him quickly and privately. Granted, Rico had to be far more circumspect in his outings beyond the palace walls these days. At twenty-four and recently graduated from Cambridge he was taking on more and more duties, beginning to represent his father and his country in an official capacity. But he should be here, Joseph quietly fumed. Some things were more important than trade negotiations.

And then, suddenly, as the priest's comforting Latin droned across the yard, there he was. He was wearing dark glasses and a brown fedora pulled low over his face, and despite the warm spring day, he wore a raincoat with the collar turned up. But Joseph had seen him in enough disguises over the years to recognize him in a clown's costume. The two young men nodded to each other; Rico held to the fringes of the mourners until the graveside ceremony ended.

As the other guests dispersed, Joseph clapped Sal on the back and made his way toward Rico.

"I got your note," Rico said, his voice hushed and almost broken. "What happened?"

"Don't you watch the news?" Joseph asked, staring out across the cemetery.

Rico was clearly at a loss, and then groped toward an answer. "The fight at the bar? I heard something about that; it's not like murders happen very often in Pyrus."

Joseph snorted.

"How are you holding up? And Sal? Is there anything I can do?" Rico reached out toward Joseph's shoulder.

"He was the closest thing to a father I ever knew," Joseph murmured. "And my own brother killed him."

"That was Diego?" Rico placed his hand firmly on his friend's shoulder. "Oh, Joe, I . . ."

Joseph shrugged off the comfort and stepped away. "Senor G was walking my mother home. A few of the Hermanos were harassing her a little outside of Andre's. Senor asked them to stop. He told them to stop. You know how he is. Was."

"Your mother? I know Diego wasn't a model son -- but his own mother?"

"Diego wasn't there at first. He saw Senor pushing back against those idiots – he always stood up to them, and they never liked it! Diego pulled a knife. Senor G threw Diego against the wall. He died almost instantly; hit his head. He's right over there." He nodded toward a fresh grave on the other side of the churchyard. "Senor took a couple of days. I thought you'd come sooner." Joseph's voice wavered as he struggled to maintain the impassivity that was his only anchor.

"I'm sorry," Rico mumbled, no longer the confident, dynamic prince in the newspapers. "I'm here now; what can I do?"

"I don't know," Joseph admitted. "I hurt. All the time. I don't know what to do. My mother can barely function, but I . . . I can't stay here, Rico."

Rico grabbed his friend by both shoulders and forced eye contact. "Come home with me," he implored. "You can go to school, or we'll get you a job. Bring your mother; we'll take care of her."

Joseph glanced around the now deserted cemetery. "Rico, it's not that simple. It's not like I'm some long lost cousin from Lichtenstein. What would you tell people?"

"I'd tell them that you're my long lost--"

"What would you tell your father?" Joseph interjected quickly.

Rico deflated. "I don't know."

"I can't stay, Rico." Joseph shook his head as though negating the last week's events. "I'm eighteen; I need to get away from here for a while."

"Joe," Rico's voice was stern, "you said I'd always know where to find you. I can't help if I--"

"I don't want your help!" Joseph turned away, flinging his arms out to encompass the neighborhood, the town, the country. "I need to get away, Rico. Away."

"Where will you go?"

"I'm going to follow Senor G and join the navy – the Spanish navy. Lots of good history there." He chuckled wistfully.

"What about your mother?"

Joseph sighed sadly. "Sal's promised to look after her. I just . . . I just can't right now."

"I'll help whether you want it or not. Don't worry about your mother, Joe."

"Thank you," Joseph whispered, resigned. "There is one other thing," he added tentatively.

"He was my teacher, too, Joe," Rico insisted. "He taught me more than all the others together. What can I do?"

"He left most of his things to me, some to you. All those books," Joseph murmured reverently. "I can't take very many with me, but I don't want to lose them. Could you--?"

"I'll keep it all safe, Joe," he promised, "until you come back for them. But you have to promise me something."

Joseph lifted an eyebrow, inquiring.

Rico took him by the shoulders again. "I may not be king yet, but you, sir, are to consider yourself the king's man. I give you leave to follow your heart, but when I call for you, when I tell you that I _need_ you, you will come home. You still have . . . you still have one brother who needs your help, too."

"I'm no prince, Rico." He lifted his eyes to meet his friend's, his brother's.

"Well, you're no _prize_ either, amigo, but I wouldn't want to lose you." Rico took him by the shoulders to lead him out of the cemetery, but Joseph stopped, pulled back, and offered his hand.

"Your Highness," he whispered intensely, "when you _need_ me, I will be there."


	4. For all the wrong that you made right

**1983**

"She's pregnant."

"Oh, Philippe! How could you?" Clarisse all but hissed at her wayward son.

"It's not what you think, Mother," Philippe insisted.

Mother and son squared off in the tiny apartment's front room. Clarisse's eyes darted sporadically from her son's now bearded face – he looked so strange, hardly a boy at all now! – to the rather bohemian surroundings. The upholstery on the small sofa and chair could be called threadbare if she were being generous; the floor could only be called clean if she gouged her eyes from their sockets. Every available space was lined with canvasses in various stages of completion. Three empty pizza boxes were stacked in the corner. This place that her son's paramour called home was . . . well how could anyone live in such chaos?

"Do they always talk about people when they're still in the room?" Clarisse heard the paramour ask Joseph as she sidled up to him.

"One grows accustomed," he replied flatly. He took her in with a speculative glance and then resumed his examination of the dust floating in front of him.

"Mother, please," Philippe begged, "listen to me." He edged her over to the dilapidated chair and urged her to sit. Clarisse eyed the chair with thinly veiled suspicion.

She hesitated just long enough for Joseph to cross the room, remove his black jacket and drape it across the chair. Bless the man! He was already proving an indispensable asset on this trip. Rupert had refused to come, pleading state business, but Clarisse was certain he simply didn't want to deal with whatever trouble Philippe had gotten himself into. In the darkest corner of Rupert's mind, she knew, Pierre had abandoned him; he couldn't bear to watch if Philippe would do the same. So he had sent Joseph in his stead. Joseph, who had taken care of that little problem with the American State Department. Joseph, who had actually managed to find Philippe's hideaway within two days, even though three private investigators had already failed to do so in the last four months. Joseph, who had quickly and smoothly slammed shut the door to her suite in the New York embassy when they saw that tart of a secretary and her friend in a decidedly indecent position – and he, himself, had ensured that the maid had changed the sheets! Joseph, who had pointedly refused to gossip with their driver about the prodigal Philippe. And now Joseph, who was protecting her yet again, by this simple gesture. Rupert was right to send him with her.

"Mother," Philippe offered hesitantly as he knelt and took her hands in his own, "it's okay. We're married."

Clarisse stared at him, dumbfounded. "Oh, dear God," she prayed.

"You see, it's okay,' Philippe babbled again, his voice rising an octave.

"It most certainly is NOT _okay_," she replied with a curt shake of her head. So much for no longer seeming a boy, she mused. And he was going to be her King someday? What was the world coming to? Clearly, she needed to get him home – and soon. But what of his paramour, no . . . his wife? Oh, dear God.

"I know it's probably a shock," he blathered on, "but I love Helen, Mother. She's the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I . . ."

The tart across the room actually had the audacity to smile, Clarisse noted.

" . . . I can't imagine living without her. And now we're going to have the baby. And I know it's not what you and Father expected from me, but the crown goes to Pierre anyway, so I figured that eventually you'd forgive me. Helen doesn't want to live in Genovia anyway, but we could come for visits, I guess--"

"Stop." Clarisse's voice was soft, but unyielding. She lifted one hand, not quite resting it on his head. Philippe hushed and looked at her expectantly.

"Pierre has entered the seminary," she informed him, her feelings on that subject rigidly controlled. "The crown will go to you."

"Oh, dear God," Philippe prayed.

"Next year," Clarisse continued, "after your twenty-first birthday, you will be formally invested as Crown Prince."

"I can't leave Helen," he demanded.

Clarisse looked to her daughter-in-law standing across the room. "Well, Philippe, I'm sure with a little training we can turn her into a suitable consort." Privately, she had her doubts.

"Philippe," Helen said as she grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet, "put this all in plain English for me. Are they making you King?"

"Not yet, love." He looked around the room, as though for an escape route. "It's not so bad, you know. It's quite beautiful back home. Plenty of great places to paint."

"Stuck in a stuffy old palace all day, learning to be 'suitable'?" She shot a pointed glance at Clarisse.

"You're more than 'suitable'," Philippe murmured. "You're perfect."

Clarisse rolled her eyes and tried to exchange a commiserating glance with Joseph. For some reason, he seemed to be completely engrossed with the dust motes again. She straightened the front of her jacket, relishing the rush of air as the fabric shifted; it had become quite warm in the small apartment.

"Philippe, I'm no Princess Di," Helen said, all but stamping her foot. "You never said this was part of the bargain. You said it _wouldn't_ be." She turned toward the door. "I need to think about this."

"Helen," he wailed. He followed her, but was stopped by Joseph's outstretched arm barring the door.

"Let her go, Your Highness," Joseph advised curtly.

Clarisse watched as Joseph now squared off with her son. The two men engaged in a silent battle played out through eye contact alone. Definitely still a boy, she decided as Philippe gave in to Joseph's determined look within seconds. Yes, Rupert was most definitely right to send him with her.

"His Majesty will be expecting our call, Prince Philippe. He knows we were coming to speak with you today." Joseph's voice was as flat as the look in his eyes. And yet to Clarisse he seemed so solid, so assured, so comforting. How had she failed to notice that all these years?

Philippe didn't appear comforted, but that was to be expected. He seemed anguished, overwhelmingly so. Just a few short years ago she had wished for him to find just this sort of love in his life – more than what she shared with his father at any rate – and now instead she must demand more from him, instead of being able to give more to him. Did he truly love this girl so deeply?

"You're right, Joseph," she said as she gingerly rose from the chair. 'Thank you for the use of your coat."

"My pleasure, Majesty." He nodded as he took his coat from her. Their fingers brushed accidentally in the process and she felt a tingle. That had happened several times during their search for Philippe. When he'd handed her out of the car at the embassy she had attributed it to the New York winter air. When he had smoothly guided her through the halls at Philippe's university, his hand skimming along her lower back, she had dismissed it as faulty climate control in the drafty old buildings. What was the culprit to be now? The dust?

He was looking at her strangely, she realized. Oh good heavens! She hadn't let go of the jacket – or his fingers. What must the man think? Her breath caught in her chest, and her heart beat wildly. No doubt that was an allergic reaction to the drying paint.

"I do so appreciate the gesture, Joseph," she said lamely, reluctantly letting his fingers slide through hers. She glanced askance at the miserable excuse for a chair.

Joseph's nod was respectful but his face was non-committal. "Shall we go?" he asked as he draped his jacket over one arm and waved toward the door.

The return trip to the Genovian Embassy passed without incident and without conversation. Philippe spent the entire drive staring glumly out the window. Joseph had stared straight ahead, not even responding to their driver's attempt at small talk.

After dismissing several approaches to engage her son's attention as pointless, Clarisse found herself studying the back of Joseph's head. It was really quite nicely shaped, she decided. She tried to recall if the fringe of hair had receded any further since he had come to the palace, but found herself at a loss. She had never paid quite so much attention to him before. Oh, he had troubled her, yes, with his staring at her without using his eyes. And there was the matter of his mysterious shared past with Rupert that she was unable to discover. Yet that ever vigilant awareness of those around him coupled with that common history was what had turned the tide for Pierre, and she was oddly grateful to him.

And he really did have the nicest head. Her hand lifted as though to caress the nape of his neck. Darting her eyes to Philippe, she caught herself and lowered her hand, clasping both firmly in her lap. What had she been about to do? She couldn't possibly be finding herself attracted to Joseph, of all people, could she?

No, of course not.

She hadn't felt attracted to anyone in years, not like this. Her relationship with Rupert had never been the all-consuming passion she had fantasized about as a young girl, but it had grown into a deep and abiding, comfortable friendship. To even consider being unfaithful to him would be wrong on so many counts; a breach of her marriage vows certainly, but also a serious dereliction of duty to the Genovian people, a betrayal of her sons, and a violation of what the crown stood for. There had been occasional opportunities for such indiscretions over the years, but she had never taken advantage of them. Granted, she helped to perpetrate a fiction, both public and private, that the royal marriage was perfect, and yet also made it quite clear, sincerely so, both publicly and privately, that her loyalty to her husband was absolute. How to deal with these twinges of . . . well, be honest, Clarisse, twinges of lust she was now feeling for Joseph? Joseph – Rupert's closest confidante.

Hot flashes! That was it. The tingling sensation when he touched her was coincidental; it must just be the beginnings of menopause. She settled back a bit in her seat, glad to have an answer that didn't challenge her view of the world as it should be.

But he really did have the nicest head.

"Driver?" she asked, unable to recall the man's name. "Could you turn the heat down, please?" The car was smaller than she was accustomed, and the heat was becoming intolerable.

Joseph turned to face her. "Everything all right, Majesty?" He glanced at her and then quickly averted his eyes to the door handle.

Clarisse tingled all over.

_Oh, dear God_, she prayed.

"Father, please try to understand!" Philippe wailed into the cordless phone.

Joseph stepped ahead of the boy to open the door to the suite assigned to the young prince. Rico would rake the poor boy over the coals, but Joseph wasn't about to get in the middle this time. His friendship with Rico was still a bit strained after his interference over Pierre's vocation; Joseph would not stand between the man and his sons again.

He made his way downstairs through a small sitting room on his way to the embassy's kitchen. It was early evening yet, but most of the staff had gone home, and the Ambassador and his wife were out for the evening.

"Joseph?" Her Majesty's hesitant voice stopped him in the middle of the room. She was sitting on the sofa, a teapot before her.

"Majesty," he nodded his head in greeting, studying the teapot. It was mauve, almost the same color as her dress, which caressed her skin . . . The table, yes, the table. It was a light honey pine, a very fine grain, almost the same color as her hair, which reflected the light of the single lamp . . . Oh, damn, it was wrong of Rico to send him with her, very, very wrong.

"Will you join me?" She indicated the spot next to her on the sofa, the spot he most wanted, most feared to be.

Was she insane? Surely she couldn't be that insensitive, to have known him for five years and not feel what he felt? He couldn't possibly be that well-controlled. To sit next to her, close to her, with no one in the building but her son upstairs? Her son, who was on the phone with her husband – his best friend – their King.

"Ah," he searched for an excuse to deny her, "that may not be the best idea, Majesty. I have to—"

"I'm beginning to sense that, Joseph," she said cryptically, an odd glint in her eye.

Not her eyes! Look at that plant in the corner, man! A ficus? Surely someone can find more interesting foliage!

"Please, sit down, Joseph." She was unfailingly polite, but there was an edge of steel in her voice. "We need to talk."

"I am . . ." he floundered as he took the chair across the table from her, "at your service, madam."

"I'm very glad to hear that." She smiled at him knowingly, but did she know? "Tea?"

He waited until she had poured the cup for him and removed her hands before he picked it up. This trip had been a difficult one. For the first time in all his years in royal service, he had been alone with her for long stretches of time. He had found himself inadvertently reaching out to touch her. He had caught himself more often than not, but those few times he hadn't had been electrifying. The nearness of her had been intoxicating, the touch of her skin, mind-numbing.

"Drink your tea, Joseph," she told him. "We have a lot to discuss."

He acquiesced and managed to sip the vile, pale liquid with customary stoicism. What he really wanted was a good hot cup of coffee, the blacker and stronger, the better – preferably with a shot of something even stronger mixed in. He waited nervously for her to begin.

"I've wanted to tell you for quite some time how much I . . ." she paused as though searching for a word.

'For quite some time'? Oh, he was in for it now. She did know, she did feel, and what kind of man encourages his best friend's wife to –

"How much I appreciate your, um, your _handling_ of Rupert this summer. I've always expected that Pierre would succeed Rupert, of course, but I do want him to be happy." She shifted slightly in her seat and took a sip of her tea.

Did she realize that her other son was now desperately unhappy? Was she unhappy? Had she any idea of the torture she was putting him through just by being in the same room?

"It was my pleasure, Majesty," he said. "Prince Pierre is well suited to the priesthood."

"What makes you say that?" she asked sharply. "How do you know?"

Joseph squirmed, desperately hoping she wouldn't notice. He hadn't entirely thought out just what he had expected from this conversation, but being grilled about Pierre certainly wasn't it.

"Pierre says that the two of you have . . . talked, on occasion." She poured herself a second cup of tea and stared at him forthrightly, clearly expecting him to elaborate on her statement. She seemed to be trying to force him to look at her, which he simply dared not do in such close – and solitary – proximity. The few times he had met her gaze had been agonizing and nearly disastrous – for him, at least.

"Prince Pierre," Joseph spoke firmly, far more comfortable talking about Pierre than the way her eyes sparkled when she thought about her children, than the way she made the simplest of tasks, like pouring her tea, grace personified, than the way his heart pounded and his stomach tightened whenever he was near her – yes, far more comfortable. He coughed to clear his throat. "Prince Pierre has come to me, on occasion, when he has had trouble with Ri--, with the King."

"Aha!" She shook her finger at him and smiled conspiratorially. "I've heard you call him that when you think you're out of earshot; so has Pierre. Why do you call Rupert 'Rico'?"

"Majesty," he equivocated, "with all due respect, I'm not at liberty to discuss the King behind his back." He set his tea cup down, pleased to have reached the dregs of the cup, even more desperate for that coffee.

"But, I'm his wife!" she said with more heat than he'd expected.

"And I'm his friend!" he replied with equal fervor.

They stared at one another across the table, eyes locked, bodies rigid. As the flash of defensiveness faded, something else rose to the surface and he found that he could not look away from her eyes. He felt more drawn to her in that moment than ever before. He could not, would not, dared not look away, and yet he knew he must, for all their sakes.

She reached across the table and took his hand. "And that's the problem, isn't it, Joseph?" she spoke softly, resigned. "That I'm his wife, and you're his friend?"

He held her hand more tightly and met her gaze fully, but cautiously. "When I first called him 'Rico'," he said softly, "it was to help him hide. And then it became a joke – he had everything, and I had nothing, and even though he was my friend, I wanted what he had more than I care to admit. It was years before I came to appreciate that, in many ways, I always had more. Then it just became a habit."

"Thank you." She moved to let go of his hand, but he held on.

"And even now, Rico still has everything I want." He rubbed his thumb lightly across her knuckles, relishing her breathless gasp. His heart beat a tattoo inside his chest, his own breath was short, but he had done it, had told her, had crossed the line.

She put her other hand to her chest, as though to calm her own racing heart, and asked him hesitantly, "And isn't it possible, that even now, in at least one way, you still have more?" She stretched her fingers within his grasp, lightly caressing the inside of his wrist.

"Do I?" he whispered roughly. "Do we?"

She nodded quickly. "I'm not sure how long I've known, but . . . there's always been something there, hasn't there?"

He nodded, too and moved to join her on the sofa. He took both of her hands in his own, but still maintained a careful distance between them. If he thought before that he could lose himself in her eyes, that was a pittance beside the glory of stroking her hands, her wrists. His fingers fairly burned with delight.

His eyes turned down to their joined hands; their fingers slowly snaked and intertwined, caressing and being caressed. Carefully, reverently, he lifted each of her hands to his lips and gently kissed her knuckles.

"Joseph," she murmured sadly, "we can't." She removed her left hand from his and stroked his cheek. He leaned into the caress for a brief moment, and then took her hand again, bringing it between them.

"I know," he whispered as he fingered her wedding ring. "I thought about leaving," he continued. He nodded at her startled look and chuckled. "This isn't exactly my first job, you know."

"Of course, but . . ." She shook her head. "It's just that Rupert depends on you. He trusts you like he has no other." Her words were rushed, racing to remind him or herself?

"I know." He released her hands and returned to the chair. "And that's why I'm still here. I promised him long ago that if he needed me, I'd be there. Ten minutes with Philippe makes it clear that I'm still needed."

"And when Philippe has matured, when he's settled?" she asked hesitantly. "What then?"

"Do you think I should leave, Clarisse?" He met her gaze directly, challengingly.

"I . . . I . . ." He felt her distress seep across the table. Her hands writhed together for a scant moment and then she forced them into her lap, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles in her dress as she did so. Joseph ached to cradle her hands again, to feel the pressure of her leg against his.

"I don't want you to leave, Joseph," she confessed. His heart leapt and then fell with a dull thud. Forty more years of this sweet torture. And now that they were in it together it would be even worse. "But, you must understand," she held her hands out in entreaty, "nothing can come of this."

"I understand," he replied bleakly.

"I wish--"

"I won't do it, Mother!" Prince Philippe barreled into the sitting room, waving the cordless phone wildly. "I won't do it."

She all but jumped back in her seat – too quickly, Joseph thought, but Philippe was too wrapped up in his own trouble to notice any odd behavior on his mother's part. It seemed to take her longer than usual to shift gears to be able to deal with Philippe. Joseph had watched her enough over the years to know her game face, the persona she adopted when dealing with self-obsessed members of Parliament and stubborn princes. He was perversely gratified to know that he was responsible for her gear grinding.

"And just what is that you won't do, Philippe?" she asked him as she smoothed back a supposedly errant strand of hair. Joseph found himself wishing he were responsible for all her errant strands.

"Father says I have to divorce Helen." Prince Philippe was dismayed. "I'm going to be a father! I can't divorce her!"

Joseph glanced from mother to son. Clarisse – he would always have trouble thinking of her as 'the Queen' now – was clearly dumbfounded.

"He told you to divorce her?" She looked to Joseph, almost imploring him.

Joseph drew his mouth into a tight line, lightly gnawing on the inside of his bottom lip. He stood to join the young prince near the door. _Duty calls._

"Your Highness," he said slowly, "no one can tell you what to do. Your father tells you what he wants, but only you can decide." He turned the young man to face him, taking him by the shoulders. "What is more important to you – the love you feel for Helen, or the love you feel for your country, your people?"

Joseph looked quickly toward Clarisse as the prince hung his head. Sadness welled in her eyes but was quickly suppressed. He cocked his head in gentle acknowledgement.

"My child . . ." Philippe whispered plaintively.

"Will be well cared for," Joseph promised. "I personally guarantee it."

"You knew!" the prince accused him. "You knew he would ask this."

"King Rupert informed me of his wishes before he spoke with you." Joseph took a tighter hold on the younger man's shoulders, forcing eye contact. "It doesn't change the choice you have to make."

Philippe nodded distractedly. "I need to think. I need to think." He shrugged out of Joseph's grasp and fled the room.

"And what is more important to you, Joseph?" Clarisse asked softly.

He sighed in resignation. "Loving you, madam, I betray my king and my friend. Continuing to serve him, to love him even, I betray the love I have for you. Yet if I did not serve him faithfully, I would be unworthy of you." He shrugged as he ran a hand across the back of his neck. He crossed the room and took her hand once more. He lightly kissed her palm and drew her hand along his cheek as he knelt before her. "I cannot leave him, and I cannot leave you."

She took his face in both hands and planted a soft, chaste kiss on his forehead. Joseph's throat tightened as he felt her tears add to the caress.

Her tears. Clarisse was not a weeper. He recalled only too clearly the only other time he had seen her cry . . .

**1978**

He had done his time in the navy, and then taken the American government up on an offer to work undercover as part of their war on drugs. His fluency in Spanish and French, as well as English, and his ease in a variety of social settings, had made him a valuable asset throughout the Caribbean and Central and South America. But Sal had died, his mother was alone once again, and it was time to come home.

His mother had wanted to see the parade. She insisted that Sal had taken her every year and she couldn't have him looking down on her knowing she wasn't showing her national pride. And so they spent their morning standing on a street corner in what passed for downtown Pyrus waiting for the annual Independence Day parade to pass them by.

"Joseph," his mother tugged at his sleeve.

He was distracted this morning, constantly scanning the shifting crowds around him. He felt the buzzing behind his left ear – the same buzzing that had always given him notice of a superior officer's bad mood or a meet with a contact suddenly gone bad. Was there trouble afoot in Genovia's capital or was it just that he was experiencing home subtly altered after a twenty year absence?

"Joseph." She tugged again, more insistently.

"Hmm?" He spared her an eye, the rest of him attuned to his personal alarm bell.

"Doesn't Prince Philippe look an awful lot like your friend Rico?" she asked him. "You remember Rico? Sal and his cousin used to tutor him, too." Ever since Senor Gutierrez' grisly death, even in her letters, he was always 'Sal's cousin', as though speaking his name would somehow tarnish his memory. Diego, her own son, she never mentioned.

Joseph spared a glance at the poster of the royal family gracing the window of the shop across the street. "I guess he does a little," he replied, non-committal.

"Whatever became of Rico?" his mother asked. "Did I miss him at the funeral?"

"I know he went to school in England." His reply was evasive, but she seemed not to notice.

His gaze returned to the picture of 'Rico' and his family. At forty-four, he was the very image of a king – strong, dynamic, charismatic. With his dark hair and flashing eyes he was a magnet for appreciative stares wherever he went. His wife, Queen Clarisse, was a perfect visual complement. Even in the picture before him, Joseph could see that she exuded grace and composure. The two boys, Pierre at sixteen and Philippe not quite fourteen, were clearly cut from their father's mold, the same dark hair, dark eyes, ready smile. Although a closer look at Prince Pierre showed that his features had more of his mother about him, a delicacy to his features as opposed to the earthier cast of his father and brother.

From the occasional letters he and Rico had exchanged, he knew that both boys were shaping up well, excelling in their studies. Ever the proud parent, Rico had shared their triumphs and tragedies over the years. He had said less about Queen Clarisse in his letters, referring to a comment or an observation she may have made, but very little about her as a person. But at least if she was making observations, she had mastered her fear of talking to Rico. Joseph chuckled as he recalled Rico's boyhood fears.

"There they are!" someone in the crowd shouted. "Long live the King!"

Joseph turned from the portrait to the person of his old friend. Rico – King Rupert – sat in an open carriage with the Queen, regally waving to his subjects. The two princes rode on matching white chargers some ways back, flanked by royal guardsmen. The crowd waved and smiled in return, but Joseph found himself unable to join them.

The buzzing behind his ear had intensified. His mother was saying something, but he couldn't hear her. Knowing better than to ignore the intuition that had served him so well, he again scanned the people about him, the doorways, the vehicles, the rooftops – there! Just as he spotted the danger, shots rang out, and pandemonium ensued.

"Everybody down!" Joseph shouted as he thrust his mother to the ground and shoved through the flimsy barricade lining the street. He pulled a slumped over Rico from the carriage before any of the royal guard reached the King.

"What are you doing?" the Queen demanded, rising.

"Get down!" Joseph hissed. He reached across Rico's eerily still form and yanked the Queen from the coach. Sparing his old friend a quick once over, and gratified that his bloody chest was still rising and falling, if raggedly, he raced toward the building from which the shots had been fired.

Strangely, no one hindered his pursuit, and no one joined him. As he ran, he caught glimpses of the activity behind him. Rico's boys had leapt from their mounts with anguished shouts and raced to his side. The royal guard had surrounded the family; at least one guard knelt at the King's side in the street. As he turned to open the door to the suspect building, Joseph saw Queen Clarisse standing in the ring of guards, tears streaking her face. Joseph shook his head and closed the door behind him.

With the door shut, he paused to listen. Scant seconds had elapsed since the shooting; the assassin could not have gone far just yet. He cocked his head toward the ceiling. Yes! Footsteps above, moving very quickly – too quickly to be an honest citizen on this day. Joseph crept toward the rear of the building.

He almost tagged the shooter, grabbing his coat as the man barreled out the door, but the villain allowed the jacket to slip away. Joseph noted the man's hands were empty and made a mental note to check the building later in case the authorities failed to. Still grasping the coat, Joseph sped after the assassin.

Within moments, the two approached a familiar neighborhood. It was slightly cleaner than Joseph remembered from his boyhood, but he could navigate the streets with ease. The assassin was keeping apace with him; no matter how fast Joseph ran, the shooter always pulled ahead.

The man turned a corner and was plunging toward Sal's Boxing Gym. Although still usually packed according to his mother, most of the country was lining the streets for the parade, and a quick glance inside made it clear that no help would come from that quarter. Joseph sped on.

Just as the villain reached the next intersection, a young boy came around the corner. With his heightened senses of the moment, Joseph took in the boy's appearance with lightning speed. He was about ten years old, average height, a bit chunky, hair that light brown that would darken with age. Eyes? Unknown as the kid was wearing dark sunglasses. He had a blue towel wrapped around his neck and a gym bag thrown over his left shoulder.

Joseph's prey, head down as he ran full out, failed to notice the boy and plowed into him. Joseph dove and grabbed the man by an ankle as a handgun fell from the assassin's waistband and shots rang again. Joseph leveraged himself further up the man's legs, keeping an eye out for the boy with the shades. The shooter stretched out his arm for his pistol. Joseph grabbed the arm, determined to stave off any more violence.

"Grab the gun!" he shouted as he saw the boy struggling to stand.

The youth reached the weapon first and turned it upon the two men, wavering as to at whom he should be aiming.

"He's the bad guy!" Joseph grunted as his fist connected with the other man's jaw.

Before he could rise on his own, rough hands were pulling him to his feet, and he found they were being surrounded by uniformed royal guards and police.

"You're quite the hero today!" one of them said, clapping Joseph on the shoulder. Several others hauled the would be assassin upright.

Joseph eyed the boy as he carefully placed the handgun in a policeman's care. One corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "I couldn't have done it without Shades over there." He nodded toward the youngster, cocking his head in salute.

It was nearly a week later that he was escorted into the throne room to receive a royal thank you. The King had lost a great deal of blood, but no vital organs had been pierced. Although his doctors insisted that more rest was necessary, Rupert had shouted them all down. He had a responsibility, he said, to keep his weekly appointment with the people of Genovia. Each Thursday afternoon, the King held public court, hearing petitions from all and sundry.

"A private audience _can_ be arranged," the King's personal secretary informed Joseph for the twelfth time that day. The man stood near him as Joseph waited in line to approach the throne that particular Thursday.

"This is the time that the King meets with the people of Genovia," Joseph said softly. "I am a person of Genovia." He indicated the wicker basket he held. "I know the routine. I did this once with my mentor as a boy."

Joseph eyed his surroundings tentatively. Indeed, the last time – the only time – he'd been in the royal palace had been at just such a public court day. Senor Gutierrez had petitioned King Christophe for more police in their old neighborhood. The old man had taken seven year-old Joseph along for "the experience of meeting his King." That had been just before Rico had come into their lives. Joseph smiled slyly, wondering if the sordid tales Senor G had told the old king had encouraged Rico's early expeditions beyond the palace walls.

There were now five people ahead of him in line. Joseph kept his head down, not sure if he wanted Rico to recognize him, even less certain if he would. Twenty years changes a man, even a man who had once been closer than a brother.

Four more to go. He turned to regard the paintings on the wall. Dozens of Renaldi ancestors met his gaze, many with the same intense stare as he remembered from Rico.

Three more. There was an apparently new painting not far from the throne. Queen Clarisse, and clearly done within the last couple of years. She really was stunning, Joseph decided – very regal. He tried to see through the layers of paint to the little girl who had impaled a pig at a royal feast, but this was a painting of a woman every inch a queen.

Only two people ahead of him. Prince Pierre, the older boy, was at Rico's side. Rico seemed to be making a point of including Pierre in his conversations with each petitioner, occasionally allowing the boy to provide the royal response.

One more, and even though Joseph strained his hearing, there was just enough distance, or the acoustics were designed just so, that he couldn't hear what was being said between the King, the prince, and the young girl kneeling before them. Despite the long line, each person essentially received a private audience. Joseph couldn't recall noticing that as a boy. Of course, as a boy, he had been far more impressed by the large sword leaning against the throne, by the plush red carpet, and by the palace guards in their colorful uniforms.

It was his turn. Still keeping his head bowed, he knelt at Rico's feet. How odd, he suddenly thought. He had known his King for thirty years now and yet had never knelt before him in this manner. He felt like a character out of one of Senor G's medieval epic poems. Joseph shook his head, chastising himself for getting caught up in the pageantry.

"Your Majesty," the secretary intoned, "I have the honor to present--"

"Joe?" Rico – King Rupert – whispered. "Is it really you?" The King leaned forward, eagerly, Joseph thought as he snuck a glance out of the corner of his eye. Then the king grunted and grimaced in obvious pain and sat back again. Prince Pierre placed a hand on the back of the throne and leaned in.

"Something for your table, Majesty," Joseph recited the formula, handing the small basket to his sovereign.

"What are you . . . ?" Rico – King Rupert – what on earth should he call the man now? He trailed off as Joseph indicated the basket with a small wave.

Curious, the King lifted the hinged lid and extracted a small tin. Opening that, he inhaled deeply and smiled slyly at Joseph. "My doctors will try to take these away from me."

"Not quite as good as Senor G's sister's," Joseph admitted, "but my mother made them, so don't tell her I said that." He carefully returned Rico's – yes, definitely _Rico's_ smile.

Rico delved into the basket again and emerged with a bottle of wine. "A '28 Siglo Saco? I'm impressed."

"No doubt the doctors will be after that faster than the galletas," Joseph smirked. He noticed the young prince chuckling, wanting to join the adult banter, but clearly uncertain as to his place.

Once more the king reached into the basket. This time he pulled out a small plastic bag. Inside the bag were two spent bullets, the casings warped into small metal blossoms. He raised a quizzical eyebrow at Joseph. Prince Pierre gasped and regarded Joseph with suspicion.

"They match the one your doctors retrieved from your chest," Joseph explained quietly. "That never should have happened," he added, leaning closer to the King. "You need me, Rico," he whispered intently.

Again the king seemed confused – and very tired, Joseph noted.

"Senor Del Lago is the man who pulled you from the carriage, Your Majesty." The secretary pushed forward, briefly blocking Joseph's view of his old friend. "He ran down the assassin and captured him."

Rico waved the officious man away, clearly preferring to deal with Joseph directly. He leaned toward Joseph again, gasping, but accepting the obvious pain the movement cost him. He held out his hand and Joseph took it.

"Your security is insufficient, Majesty," he began. "As the King's man I would be remiss if I failed to point that out." The two men exchanged a knowing glance. "You needed me and you didn't call." Joseph kept his voice flat, passionless. He hadn't intended to connive Rico into giving him a job, but suddenly he found that the place he most wanted to be was at Rico's side. His heart beat wildly and his palms began to sweat. How strange to now want something desperately that he hadn't even considered just moments ago.

Rico placed his other hand over their clasped ones and stood, pulling Joseph upright with him. "You're right, my friend," he said steadily, some sort of relief evident through his physical pain. "I do need you."


	5. For every dream you made come true

Author's Note: I know it's been a while since this has been updated, and I'm very sorry. I'm also sorry that these chapters just keep getting longer and longer. This is one of my personal favorites though, and contains one of the scenes that first led me to begin writing this story. I do have most of the story fleshed out in my mind, if not yet committed to electrons. I assure you, it will -- eventually -- be completed. It is however, very much a work in progress; any comments, suggestions, and areas for improvement are much appreciated.

_For every dream you made come true . . ._

**1984**

_He knows._ Clarisse regarded the gardener with veiled anxiety as she ambled toward the gazebo near the center of the vast palace gardens. It was early spring and very little to delight the senses as yet, but Clarisse had always appreciated seeing the potential each year, knowing there were tender shoots on the verge of bursting through the slowly softening soil. But this year she was troubled. Ever since she and Joseph and Philippe had returned from America just before Christmas she had felt out of sorts. She hoped that most of the staff attributed her suddenly sullen mood to the 'situation' with Prince Philippe, as the back corridor whispers dubbed it.

Philippe's marriage and divorce were not widely known, but everyone in the palace, indeed the country, was aware of the young prince's dramatic change over the course of the last two years. Where he had been carefree and engaging before he left for school in America, he was now a very driven young man, determined to pour every ounce of his being into fulfilling his duty to the crown, to his people. Clarisse would weep for the loss of the boy he had been if she didn't feel so responsible for Philippe's closing himself off from family, from friends, from love.

And here _he_ was, doing it to her, too. It wasn't her fault. It was Rupert and Joseph who had bullied her son into leaving his wife and unborn child behind in America. Yet somehow, Rupert had been able to turn the tables and emerge as the closest thing Philippe had to a friend. He showered his son with gifts – cars, horses, technological trinkets; all of which Philippe acknowledged graciously and then ignored. He monopolized the young man's time, filling his days with 'King lessons.' The same sort of 'lessons' he had privately groused about in the early days of their marriage when he'd received them from King Christophe. She knew it wasn't malicious on Rupert's part, but she felt unaccountably betrayed, as though he had stolen her son from her. Philippe now seemed to blame her for the decision and the responsibility thrust upon him so suddenly. But it wasn't her fault.

The gardener smiled as she passed him and dipped his head in salute. _He knows,_ she thought again. _They all know._

Shivering slightly in the cool air, she thrust her hands deeper into her coat pockets and turned back toward the palace. When she reached the ballroom doors, a maid who had been in the process of cleaning the glass held the door open for her. "Thank you," Clarisse murmured, though her mind shrieked, _she knows!_

She ambled not quite aimlessly through the long corridors. While she had no clear destination in mind, she did have a goal: find Rupert. Just that day she had received a letter from Pierre, enclosed with a letter from the dean of his seminary. Pierre was happy, and he was excelling. She felt at a loss as to whether Rupert would take either as good news, but she needed him to understand that their son was not 'wasting his life in a monastery.' He had been called to a still higher duty than the crown and they should be proud of him.

She poked her head in Rupert's office, but there was no sign of him. Down the hall to the library – not there either. Around the corner to Jorge's office – not a soul in sight. Now that was odd. Rupert's personal secretary generally spent the hour before supper reviewing the day's work and making adjustments to the next day's itinerary. There was noise coming from the next hallway. It almost sounded like . . . cheering?

Clarisse made her way toward a part of the palace she rarely frequented. Shortly ahead was a set of double doors leading to an area that composed the better part of the second floor of this wing. At one time it had been a general recreation area, but shortly before she and Rupert had been married he had converted it to a full scale boxing gym. Peeking through the door, it looked even larger than she remembered.

There were boxing bags hanging from the ceiling and all sorts of exercise contraptions around the outskirts of the room. In the center stood a boxing ring, elevated a bit above floor level. A small crowd of onlookers, mostly security personnel, but a few others – she noted Jorge and that new man in Parliament, Lord Harmony -- surrounded the ring cheering on both of the combatants. Clarisse inhaled sharply and then caught herself, backing out the door and crossing to the other side of the hallway.

Out of sight, out of mind? Not by half. The image of the two men was seared into her mind, and, it seemed, as she fought to regain control of her breathing, into the rest of her body as well. Rupert and Joseph, both shirtless and wearing shorter, tighter pants than she had ever seen either one of them in before, had certainly looked like they were enjoying pummeling one another. They must have been going at it for some time because both had been covered in sweat.

Placing one hand against the wall, she breathed deeply, rhythmically, and tried to banish the image from her mind. Focus on Rupert; that was the way. While certainly fit, he'd been breathing hard and dripping sweat. And although her husband's body was certainly well-proportioned, it had never aroused to her the passionate abandon she had once dreamed of. Joseph, now . . . Joseph's hard chest rippled into his stomach and fairly glistened with moisture. Having never seen him so bared, she was utterly unprepared for the depth of desire stirred merely by the sight of him. She ran her hands down her sides, smoothing out imagined wrinkles and hoping to calm herself, but as her fingers brushed beneath her breasts, she found herself longing for Joseph's hands. Oh, dear.

She really had tried to avoid him since their return from America. No sense actively courting disaster after all. And yet, somehow, far too often, she would turn a corner and he would be there. He never approached her, seldom even spoke to her, but every time he nodded his head in greeting, she felt the memory of his hands engulfing her own as they had in New York.

Without conscious thought, she eased the door open again. They were still going at it. They were dancing around each other, bouncing lightly on the balls of their feet, each one taking an occasional jab at the other. She had no idea how one kept score in boxing – did they even keep score? – but Joseph seemed to be winning. Rupert was definitely out of breath, and his punches lacked precision. Joseph kept his hands close to his body, in front of his face, affording her an unimpeded view, except when Rupert was in the way, of his well-toned chest and stomach. She wondered how he would feel beneath her hands . . . no, no, no. Closing her eyes, she let the guilt wash over her. _They know,_ she thought, _they all know._

When she opened her eyes again, Joseph was staring into them. Still in the ring, now clenched together with Rupert thumping him over and over in the left side. He gave her a sad smile and then closed his eyes, evidently reaching a decision. With a mighty shove he pulled himself out of his king's grasp and sent two quick jabs to Rupert's jaw. Taking the opening, Rupert landed a mighty blow into Joseph's stomach, causing him to double up and grunt in apparent pain.

"Ma—Majesty," he sputtered, "that's my limit." He backed away further, sagging against the ropes.

"You okay?" Rupert asked him, gasping.

"After a shower and some tape over these ribs – yes," Joseph answered, touching gloves with Rupert.

As both men clambered over the ropes, Clarisse darted back out the half open door and hastened down the hallway. She absolutely would NOT think about Joseph in the shower . . .

"You threw that match!" King Rupert all but shouted as he barreled into the small sitting room the staff had long ago dubbed 'the Spanish library.'

Joseph eyed him warily from his favorite chair by the fire.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Rupert demanded. He lowered himself heavily onto the small sofa next to Joseph's chair. Helping himself to a cup of coffee from the service on the low round table directly in front of the fireplace, he propped his feet on the table and again challenged, "Well?"

"That table's older than you are." Joseph gave him a pointed look, and Rupert made the small concession of removing his shoes.

"It was Senor G's," Joseph added, marking the place in his book and setting it aside. He leaned forward and added a dollop of whiskey to Rico's coffee.

"And he put his feet up frequently," Rupert insisted. "Quit trying to divert me. Tell me why you threw it."

Knowing his friend would ask, Joseph had thought of little else over the late supper he had recently finished. Although he had his answer ready, he hesitated slightly. While the answer he had prepared was valid, it wasn't entirely true. He had never lied to Rico before, and it didn't sit well. He regarded Rico thoughtfully, hoping his look said _the answer is so obvious you should have thought of it yourself, _and not _I'm terrified you're going to see right through me and almost as mad that you haven't done so already._

"It won't do my staff any harm to see me lose to _you_," he began, the notion becoming more believable as he spoke, "but there's no need to damage your reputation in front of the few nobility that were there. There's more to security than scheduling bodyguards. I have to protect your image as well as your aging, practically decrepit body."

Rico appeared to give the matter some thought. He stood and padded across the room, fingering a small glass-fronted wooden case holding medals from wars long gone.

"I haven't beaten you since we were boys, Joe," he said, giving a pointed stare of his own from the case of medals to his friend. "When I do, I want to _know_ that I won. I don't want it handed to me."

Joseph sighed – in resignation to Rico's point or relief that the real reason remained safely hidden, he wasn't quite sure. "Point taken, Majesty," he said with a respectful nod.

"Cut it out." Rico scowled. "Once or twice a week – at most – I get to come here and pretend as though I'm eighteen years old again. No paperwork, no trade negotiations, no royal rubbish; just you, me, Senor G, and a room full of books. Is that really so much to ask?"

Although he'd always known that, given the choice, Rico would have preferred almost any occupation other than the one he held, it suddenly occurred to him how alike their situations were. Rico felt trapped. With no brothers, he'd never even been able to consider any other life. Perhaps that was a part of his problem with Pierre -- Pierre had had an opportunity for a choice and had run with it.

Joseph, too, felt trapped. He loved Clarisse, of that he no longer had any doubt. But in a very different, and yet oddly similar way, he loved Rico, too. Rico was his oldest friend, in many ways his first real friend other than Senor G. And, by day at least, Rico was also King Rupert, his sovereign, the man to whom he had sworn unwavering fealty. But Clarisse . . . She was everything he wanted for his future, minus that crown she wore a couple of times a month. She was the woman to whom he had sworn, if only in the solitude of his own heart, absolute devotion.

"I'm afraid I can't allow that, Rico," he said, shaking off his reverie. Joseph gave his old friend an ironic smile. "If you're eighteen, then I'd be twelve. I have no desire to be twelve years old again."

"Spoilsport," Rico muttered.

Inwardly, Joseph cringed. Over the course of the last few months, they had regained the easy camaraderie that had always marked their friendship. That camaraderie had fallen victim to Joseph's support of Pierre the prior summer. And now, just as things were getting back on track, Joseph was tarnishing it in a far more elemental fashion. In order to screen his love for Clarisse, he had lied to Rico. Where would it end?

"I handled it badly with Philippe, didn't I?" Rico asked suddenly.

"Since when did I become your confessor?" Joseph shot back at him, too wrapped up in thoughts of the king's wife to clearly focus on the king himself. That had been Rico's snide comment to him when he had offered counsel and advice about Pierre.

Rico shot him a startled glance.

"I'm sorry," Joseph said sincerely. "My ribs hurt." _Another lie._ "I didn't mean to say that." _True in more ways than one._

"Quit trying to make me feel better," Rico quipped. "Tell me what you think, Joe. You're the only one who really does."

"Yes." It was both agreement and answer.

"That's it? Just 'yes'?" Rico glared at him. "No elaboration? No Senor G-ism to give me a paternal epiphany?"

Joseph downed the last of his coffee and poured another cup, marshalling his thoughts while he doctored the drink. He tapped his book on his thigh as he listed each point. "I think you should have gone to him, though I understand your reasons for making him come to you. The divorce was your idea, but, in the end, Philippe and Helen both agreed to it. I think they would have had a rocky marriage no matter where they'd lived, but they could have run off."

He took a long swallow before continuing. "I think you're a real bastard for allowing the blame to shift to Clarisse. She was more surprised by it than Philippe that night." His words grew more clipped and precise, a sure sign of his ire.

"Please, Joe, don't mince words," Rico sneered.

"Then don't ask for my opinion." Joseph turned back to his book.

The two men sat in uncomfortable yet still companionable silence for several minutes. Rico shuffled through the stack of books on the table, idly pulled one aside, and moved to the other chair directly opposite Joseph's.

"So how do I fix it?" he finally asked.

Joseph glanced up, holding his place with a finger. "With your wife?" He snorted. "I couldn't tell you."

"She'll come around," he said with apparent confidence. "Next to you, she's my best friend."

"Of course." Joseph waited, hoping Rico just needed a sounding board to work things out for himself. He had played psychologist to his king often enough in the last few years. Always before, however, the problem had been a stubborn Member of Parliament, a shifty ambassador, or an exasperating prince. Joseph wasn't prepared to help Rico make up with the love of his own life.

"Flowers and chocolate," he murmured, suddenly feeling he had to suggest something.

Rico looked uncomfortable. He shook his head slowly. "That kind of thing won't work with Clarisse."

"Just because she's not madly in love with you doesn't mean flowers and candy won't work." Joseph insisted. "No woman can resist that."

"What do you . . .?" Rico began and then trailed off. "Well, I would guess you, of all people, would be able to see through our sham of a marriage."

"I know you, and I've come to know her somewhat over the last few years." He sent Rico a flat, telling look. "Your image is safe with me, Rico." _And that I am determined to keep true._

"She does like flowers," Rico mused. "Maybe if I put her in charge of redesigning the gardens. Not just a bouquet of flowers, but years of flowers."

"It's healthier than a chocolate factory," Joseph said as he opened his book once again.

After several more minutes of infinitely more comfortable silence, Joseph broached another sensitive topic. "Have you heard from Pierre?"

Rico regarded him with something between suspicion and shock. "Haven't you?"

"I never meant to come between you."

"I know," Rico replied, rubbing his forehead. "I keep reminding myself that when I was his age, I cared more about Senor G's opinion of me than I did my own father's. At least I have the advantage of being able to talk to Pierre's Senor G."

Joseph was stunned. "I never . . . I never quite thought of it that way. That I was Senor G to Pierre."

"How did you see it?" Rico leaned forward, his book slid to one side.

"I was . . . I don't know." Joseph struggled, still working out the ramifications of this perspective. "He just needed someone to listen to him."

"Everyone needs a mentor," Rico pontificated. "Someone who meets you where you are but challenges you to be more."

"There's your Senor G-ism," Joseph said. He paused, thoughtful. "Who's Philippe's mentor?"

"That's part of why I know I handled this so badly. And a large part of why he's floundering so – I think." Rico shifted in his seat, scanning the room. "You see, as strange as it might sound, I think his mentor used to be – Clarisse!" He jerked forward, eyes locked on the doorway.

Joseph turned to the open door. Queen Clarisse stood framed within. Despite her husband's presence, Joseph's heart went out to her. She looked so . . . lost. She seemed a woman bereft of everything she held dear. Given events of the last few months, that was pretty accurate, Joseph mused. And yet she was captivating. She had changed her dress since the afternoon, he noted, and was now wearing a soft yellow silk skirt and blouse that hugged her figure everywhere it was meant to . . . _her husband is in the room, man . . . snap out of it! _He stood carefully, his back ramrod straight, eyes on the light switch to her left, and motioned toward the sofa.

"Good evening, Majesty," he said softly, as blandly as he could. "Would you care to join us?"

"Oh, I . . ." she faltered, and Joseph wondered if her thoughts resembled his own. "I don't mean to intrude. I was just looking for . . . Rupert." She turned to her husband with a small sigh.

"Nonsense!" Rico's voice was a bit too loud, Joseph thought. "You're never an intrusion, Clarisse. Sit, sit." He gestured to the sofa as well, plumping a pillow for her. "We were just talking about you, actually."

"You were?" Clarisse eyed each man in turn. She looked like a frightened, trapped animal to Joseph. He wondered if Rico could see that. She sat on the very edge of the sofa, as though certain she was less welcome than they professed.

"We were discussing the princes," Joseph clarified as he settled back into his chair, "and so, naturally, your name came up." He struggled to keep his gaze flat and emotionless. How could he not look at her in such an intimate setting? That would seem odder than staring at her. She was so close, though thankfully at the end of the sofa nearer Rico's chair; if she'd been any nearer he could not have stopped himself from reaching for her hand.

Rico snorted. "We were discussing the fact that I'm an ass and Philippe needs a mentor, and still, naturally, your name came up."

Joseph and Clarisse both stared at him in shock. Joseph was at a loss as to which of them was more startled by Rupert's frank confession. Joseph had never heard Rico speak crudely in front of Clarisse, much less with her own name in the sentence. He shot a quick glance in her direction, but now that the initial surprise had worn off, she seemed a bit more calculating than offended.

"Both of you," Rico ordered, "stop playing games with me." Joseph turned a guilty glance from the love of his life to her husband. "I know I've tried to keep the various parts of my life separate, but we all need to put that behind us. I need help from both of you if we're to have any hope of turning Philippe into a decent king someday."

"Well, that's a back handed apology if ever I heard one, Rupert," Clarisse said tartly, though affectionately.

"What, exactly, are you saying, R—Majesty?" Joseph was adrift, uncertain as to where the currents in the conversation were going. Clarisse, oddly, seemed more comfortable now than when she first came in. He determined to take his cues from her.

"Clarisse," Rico stated, waving an arm in Joseph's direction, "meet Joe, my best friend since I was thirteen years old. We sort of went to school together.

"Joe," he continued in the same frank fashion, "meet Clarisse – my wife, not the Queen, not the perfect princess the papers make her out to be, but my good and true friend."

He looked from one to the other. "I really only have two friends, and I need you both. I need for you to be friends, or at least friendly, because the most important thing right now is getting Philippe ready for the crown."

"Are you planning on dying sometime soon?" Clarisse asked with faint sarcasm.

"No," Rupert drew out the word, "but I have a—"

"—responsibility to Genovia," both Joseph and Clarisse chorused with him. They shared an indulgent grin at their mutual friend's overarching sense of duty – a grin laced with a bit more warmth than the joke warranted. Joseph cringed inwardly. It was a faint relief to display his affection for Clarisse in that glance, and yet it was painful, too, for there was so much more he could not show, could not indulge.

"Ah, I see," Rico said shrewdly, "that's how it is, then? I bring you jointly into my council and now you're going to gang up on me?"

Clarisse's features exuded schooled sadness, Joseph thought as he fixed his gaze sternly on the light switch across the room. "No, Rupert," she said softly, "we would never do that."

"I do believe you're right," he said, shooting a puzzled glance from one to the other. "Now, if you'll both excuse me, I'm going to see what Philippe is up to. Somebody has to be the poor boy's friend now that I've pushed him away from the two people who might have helped him most. I really have been an ass about that, Clarisse, and I am sorry." He stood, clapping his hands on his thighs.

"Make Philippe smile again and I'll put paid to it," she said quietly. Setting her coffee cup down, she made to stand also.

"No, stay if you want," Rupert insisted. "Joe knows a lot about befriending boys who've been alienated from their parents." He chuckled as he passed Joseph's chair, patting him good-naturedly on the shoulder. "I'll see you both in the morning."

Tense silence reigned for several minutes after the king left the room.

"Do you think he knows?" Clarisse whispered, strained.

Joseph stared through the still open door. "I really don't know," he answered.

"I should go," she whispered again.

"Hmm," Joseph said, distracted by thoughts of what Rico did or did not know. _No, my darling,_ he almost spoke the words aloud, _I should go. I should go far away. I should go before I ruin us all._ "Yes, you should," he said instead, not strong enough to leave her.

"I don't want to."

Her voice, petulant yet firm, dejected yet hopeful, moved him, unthinking, to her side. Checking himself as he sat near her on the sofa, he left a few inches of space between them. Deliberately, he took her hand and, bringing it briefly to his lips, intertwined their fingers and rested their joined hands on his thigh.

"As I recall, Clarisse," he spoke her name firmly, emphasizing his use of her name, not a title, "our king has asked for our help." He squeezed her hand, reminding himself not to move any closer, regardless of how much he wanted to. "What can we do to help him help Philippe?'

Clarisse's sigh was almost a groan. "How can you expect me to think about Rupert, or even Philippe, when you're holding my hand like that?"

Joseph looked to his lap, where his thumb was idly stroking across the back of her hand. Chastened, he stilled, but did not release her hand, instead clutching it even more tightly to him. He turned to look deeply into her eyes.

"I've promised him, Clarisse. And yet I break my promise every time I think of you." His eyes bore into her. What was he doing? Was he trying to blame her for his own infidelity? That was absurd; if anyone was to blame, it was he.

He let her hand go with a last gentle squeeze and stood, leaning over her, placing one hand on the arm of the sofa. Again without conscious thought he lowered his head to hers. He paused, their lips scant centimeters apart – he could kiss her now and no one would be the wiser.

"I will protect and guard the King's interests, Clarisse," he murmured intensely, "even from myself." He straightened, regretfully but with resolve, and left the library through a small door in the far corner.

As he closed the door to his private quarters behind him, he struggled to recall the details of his oath to Rico instead of thinking about Clarisse, sitting in the midst of Senor G's library – alone.

**1984**

It had been the end of Christmas Court, the first day of the new year, and all the nobles of Genovia were on hand at the palace to renew a centuries old tradition. Indeed, most of the palace staff had already done so, offering or restating vows of homage and loyalty to the King shortly after lunch. The department heads made similar oaths along with the nobility in the throne room that evening. The Oathtaking was followed by a grand ball accompanied by the giving of gifts from the royal family.

Joseph stood just inside the door to the right of the throne, watching the various members of the nobility mill about. He quickly made eye contact with those of his security staff in the room. Having attended several of these annual Oathtaking ceremonies, he had expected nothing unusual. There were two new lords taking the Oath for the first time this evening, brothers-in-law, oddly enough – Mabrey was one and Deveraux the other. Deveraux seemed a decent enough sort, going on at length about his infant son; but privately Joseph felt that Mabrey would warrant careful watching; he didn't seem to be cut of the same cloth as his father, a plodding, methodical man given to philanthropy. No, the new Viscount appeared a bit of a schemer in Joseph's estimation.

Nevertheless the evening passed largely without incident. The loudest whispers regarded the whereabouts of Prince Philippe, now the heir presumptive. Joseph was just as happy with the moody prince safely ensconced in his room; the boy was too likely to cause trouble given his emotional state. He had come home, but not altogether willingly. Joseph made a quick mental note to follow up on Helen Thermopolis and her impending child; that was one loose end that would need careful tying off.

Rico was at the top of his game, however. Joseph marveled at just how well Rico excelled at what he called 'playing King.' The daily grind of paperwork and negotiations wearied him – it was nothing but duty, but Rico never failed to impress when it came to the ceremonial end of his job. He was resplendent in his tux draped with a mantle of purple silk and ermine. He sat on the throne as though hewn from the gold and marble monstrosity itself, every inch the King. Joseph stretched his neck, trying to loosen his tie without being obvious.

Clarisse circulated among the throng, thanking many for coming, although in truth they had little choice. Like Rico, she seemed completely at ease. She had no official role in the evening's ceremonies, though she generally stood at Rico's side when the actual oaths were being given and received. She looked stunning, putting forth a good show as always, but to Joseph, having watched her so closely for so many years, it was clear that she was nearly run ragged. His confession in America couldn't have been easy on her. Not for the first time he berated himself for speaking about it. Bad enough he was unfaithful and disloyal in his heart, now he was dragging her into it, too.

Prince Pierre was present as well, though not at his once customary post at his father's left, the post Philippe should have been filling. Pierre wandered about the fringes of the crowd, intentionally emphasizing his changing status by wearing a simple tux with no embellishments. It would be several years before he would don a clerical collar, but Pierre clearly meant to maintain relations with the family while keeping his distance from the crown. Rupert had welcomed the young man civilly when he returned to the palace for the Christmas holidays, but there was little warmth between the two.

Joseph felt the door open behind him and stepped forward, turning to greet the late arrival. His face froze as Prince Philippe strode into the room.

"Good evening, Your Highness," he said flatly.

"I'm not going to cause any trouble, Joe," he replied testily, "if that's what you're implying."

Joseph shook his head. "I was wishing you a good evening, Highness," he said, making firm eye contact with the prince. "Just wishing."

Philippe tugged at the hem of his jacket and surveyed the crowd. "Duty first, right, Joe?" He looked toward Rico, talking animatedly with Lord Crawley and his two burly sons. "That's what Father always says, isn't it?"

"Don't do anything you may be duty bound to regret later, Highness." Joseph left the young man standing and made his way forward where he could catch Rico's eye.

Rico acknowledged him quickly, and then glanced to the right, saw Philippe, and the man actually smiled. There was no hesitation, no anxiety, he was genuinely happy to see his moody, depressed, it's-all-about-me son. Joseph couldn't decide if he should pity Rico or emulate him. Privately, he was convinced that Prince Philippe was a disaster waiting to happen. In the three weeks since their return from the States, Philippe had seemed like a boiler exceeding its pressure limits a bit more each day. A blow out was coming, Joseph was certain; he would prefer it to be a private one.

Rico had been moody himself during most of Christmas Court, casting dark glances at Pierre and Clarisse, and occasionally at Joseph. He had gone out of his way to accommodate Philippe though, spoiling the young man outrageously. Perhaps Rico saw Philippe's presence tonight as the payoff of those efforts. Joseph had begun to wonder if there would ever be a payoff for the rest of them. He had done Rico's bidding with Philippe in America to help heal the rift between them over Pierre, but he still sensed an unreasoning tension from Rico. _Unless he knows about Clarisse?_

Startled, he jumped at a sudden tap on his shoulder.

"Do you think I can help?" Pierre asked. He handed Joseph a champagne glass. "It's ginger ale," he added, nodding to the glass. "I can see you're on duty."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?" he quipped in reply. "I've a feeling I'm going to need something a lot stronger before tonight is over."

"That's what I meant." Pierre waved his glass toward his brother. "He can't last much longer. Sooner or later, he's going to explode."

"I think he blames you as much as he does the rest of us," Joseph said. "After all, you're the one who made this necessary."

Pierre looked hurt. It occurred to Joseph that the situation couldn't be much easier on him, knowing that, in all honesty, it was because of him, and yet he couldn't possibly have acted any differently.

"_I _didn't tell him to divorce the girl," Pierre retorted.

"I know, I know." Joseph tried to soothe. "I'm sorry. That came out badly."

"Here," Joseph said, handing the glass back to Pierre. "Give this to Philippe. See if you can keep him from drinking tonight."

"Looks like you'll be on in a few minutes anyway." Pierre gestured toward the throne where Rico was seating himself with no small amount of flourish. "He sure knows how to put on a show, doesn't he?"

"I'll let you in on a secret." Joseph motioned Pierre closer. "It's his favorite part of the job," he whispered. "Now, go keep your brother out of trouble while I take my place in line."

Joining the rapidly forming queue, Joseph found himself bracketed by Paul Harmony, a relatively unassuming man he'd always liked, and the new Viscount Mabrey, a weasel he was fast coming to find objectionable. Mabrey seemed to regard everything – and everyone – around him in a far too acquisitive manner. He appeared the type who thought he was better suited to the crown than the man wearing it. Joseph reached a hand up to rub behind his left ear, which had begun to buzz faintly in warning. Careful watching, indeed.

Fortunately, Harmony was before Joseph and Mabrey behind, so he only occasionally felt the need to acknowledge the Viscount's presence. As the line slowly advanced, Harmony engaged him in conversations ranging from the growing concern about AIDS, to the revived American space program, to his son's hopeful inclusion on the Genovian Olympic boxing team, to the newest pear wine he had developed. The man was deeper than Joseph had previously given him credit, and he resolved to invite him down to the gym sometime soon.

Shortly, Rico beckoned Lord Harmony forward and Joseph could hear the faint mutter of their exchanged oaths of loyalty and fealty. It struck Joseph as odd that, in this age of democratic process, even a country as politically backward as Genovia would still retain such medieval customs. Of course, Senor G would say that such traditions formed the backbone of their society and paved the way for polite relationships. Or, in the shorter version he'd frequently heard Clarisse use with unruly teenage princes – manners matter. _And besides,_ he confessed privately, _it's__ fun._

Rico stood, pulled Harmony to his feet and clapped him on the back as he motioned Joseph forward. The King's smile had evaporated and he instead wore a troubled, quizzical look. Joseph faced him in front of the throne, but made no move to kneel since Rico remained standing. He fought the urge to tug at his left ear, but darted quick glances in either direction, alert for danger.

King Rupert turned, glancing at Clarisse standing to the right of the throne. His lips stretched into a grim line and he nodded, as though confirming something for himself. Inwardly, Joseph panicked, the source of his premonition now clear. _He knows and he's going to expose us here in front of God and everybody._ Outwardly, he stared fixedly at the royal crest behind the throne. Out of the corner of one eye, he saw the King beckon to Pierre, who had Philippe in reluctant tow. Out of the opposite corner, he watched Clarisse blanch and then quickly smother her concern. _Madre de Dios__, no, he's not that stupid!_

"Our dear and faithful friends," Rico's voiced boomed, easily heard at the back of the hall when he chose to make it so. He paused and gave Joseph an unreadable look.

_I could read him like a book when I was seven! What on earth is he thinking that I can't get a bead on him now?_

"There is a matter that has gone unresolved in this palace for many years now." Rico's right hand crashed onto Joseph's shoulder; it was all he could do not to wince.

_Oh, hell . . ._

"Some of you are, perhaps, aware of this matter and might even have wondered why we chose to take no action previously. Others new to this court may be less informed. Indeed, we ourself learned many of the details much later." As he spoke, Rico – was it Rico, or King Rupert about to exact judgment? That royal "we" was more unnerving than ever before. Rico's eyes swept the assembled court, making eye contact with everyone except Joseph. His hand still rested heavily on Joseph's shoulder.

_Just let him take it out on me, _Joseph prayed fervently. _Don't let anything happen to Clarisse._

"Recent events make it clear that we should, indeed, have taken action long ago." He looked sad, unaccountably sad.

_Damn, damn, damn, damn . . . Who could have told? How could he know? Damn, damn, damn, damn . . ._

"And so, tonight, we will rectify this long-standing error." He looked again at Joseph, once again with that curiously blank expression on his face. "I'll have to ask you kneel, Joe," he whispered regretfully.

_I'm dead. I'm dead, dead, dead, dead, dead . . ._

As Joseph knelt before his king, his gaze flicked to Clarisse. He could not call out to her, but he drank in every inch of her, savoring the sight and smell of her as he slowly submitted himself to her husband's judgment.

As Rico reached for the large sword leaning against the throne, Joseph's panic reached his eyes. A small, slightly mad voice hidden deep inside urged him to throw himself at Rico's feet, wailing, _Sire, I swear, I never touched her!_

Using two hands, Rico raised the mighty weapon, now purely ceremonial but well maintained to a razor sharp edge. The sword rested against the side of Joseph's neck and Rico braced himself, setting his feet apart. A somewhat louder, though seriously deranged voice capered through Joseph's mind goading him to snatch the flimsy saber Philippe wore belted at his side and challenge Rico, _She loves me, you fool! Not you! She never has! She's mine, I tell you! Mine!_

Savagely squelching both voices, Joseph clenched his sweating palms against his pant legs and lowered his head, knowing full well he deserved whatever Rico was about to throw at him. He could just see the hem of Clarisse's gown off to his left. _I love you. _He hoped desperately that she might somehow hear his unspoken cry. _I'm sorry,_ he thought as he stared fixedly at Rico's shoes.

"Joseph Del Lago, by the authority vested in us by God and the people of Genovia," Rico's voice rang out almost cheerfully and Joseph sickened, "We bestow upon you the rank of Le Chevalier de l'Ordre de la Poire, with all the rights and responsibilities therein contained."

Joseph's head sagged, relieved to still be connected to the rest of him, not yet registering the impact of Rico's words. As Rico touched first his left shoulder, then his right with the massive sword, Joseph looked up in wonder. Rico seemed to have swelled to titanic proportions; he was Arthur, Charlemagne, and El Cid all rolled into one. And he was smiling.

"Though your long history of friendship and service to King and Country makes it evident you understand and embody the duties of your Knighthood, it is our solemn duty to remind you."

Joseph's eyes widened with still greater panic as the King's 'judgment' finally became clear. It was a boyhood dream come true, to be certain – it was every boy's boyhood dream. But he did not deserve it. Not now, not when he deceived his King and his friend with every waking thought.

"A knight must respect all those who are weak or defenseless, whether because of age, infirmity, poverty, or vow, and be steadfast in defending them." Rico handed the sword off to someone – was it Pierre? – and placed one hand on each of Joseph's shoulders. _Okay, maybe this won't be so bad . . ._

"A knight must love his Kingdom and fulfill most faithfully his duties to his King." _Duties I can handle . . ._

"His word must be dependable beyond doubt or question." _And here's where it gets sticky. Do you doubt my word, Rico? You should . . ._

"He must never flee from the face of his foes." _And when the foe is your best friend, your King? Or if the foe is myself? _

"He must be generous to all." _Believe me, I'd like to be more than generous to one in particular, but that's the one thing I don't dare . . ._

"And, always and everywhere, he must be the champion of the right and the good." _If only you knew how thick you're laying on the guilt, my friend. I'd have rather been beheaded . . ._

"Arise, Sir Joseph," Rico commanded, "and take your place in this company." Sliding his hands down to Joseph's elbows, Rico helped him to stand. As he rose, his right knee buckled slightly; he stumbled almost unnoticeably and quickly recovered. "You okay?" Rico murmured.

"I'm in shock," Joseph whispered hoarsely, grateful he could speak at all. "I had no idea."

They stood quietly together at the throne, allowing the surprised buzz from the crowd to run its course. Joseph especially noted the startled yet calculating look on Viscount Mabrey's face, standing next in line.

"I, uh," Joseph coughed, "I still owe you an Oath," he reminded Rico.

"Indeed you do." Rico chuckled. "On your knees again then, Sir Joseph." He bowed with a flourish.

"You can call me Joe," he said, cocking his head to the side and forcing a smile as he again knelt at Rico's feet. Holding out his hands together, Rico clasped them within his own.

"Before God and this company," Joseph began the familiar litany, "I will to Philippe Arthur Rupert Navarre Renaldi be true and faithful, and love all which he loves and shun all which he shuns, preserve and defend him, protect and guard his interests, according to the laws of God and Genovia. Nor will I ever with will or action, through word or deed, do anything which is unpleasing to him, on the condition that he will hold to me as I shall deserve it, and that he will perform everything as it was in our agreement when I submitted myself to him and chose his will."

As he spoke, all the moisture from his mouth migrated to his palms. He could only hope that with all the hands Rico had held this night, he wouldn't notice. Rico was giving his acceptance of Joseph's Oath, but he was oblivious to it. Suddenly, the Oath wasn't fun anymore. It was deadly serious, and he was knowingly prostituting his own honor with every word. Of course, he certainly did 'love all which he loves,' though in quite a different manner than the Oath implied. But would Rico be pleased at the words Joseph and Clarisse had exchanged in New York? Certainly not.

He shifted to make his way away from the throne for the ceremony to continue, but Rico held him, a hand on Joseph's arm.

"I still need you, Joe," he said earnestly. "Keep that wanderlust in check, okay? Don't abandon me again."

Where before Rico had swelled to mammoth proportions in Joseph's eyes, now he seemed to shrivel, and he was once again a thirteen year old boy, lost in a strange and dangerous part of town. Joseph's gaze flared over Clarisse, and she met it with an almost imperceptible, resigned shrug. He glanced briefly at the giant crest behind the throne, and rested finally on his King.

"I could never leave you, Your Majesty," he said, knowing he spoke to both of them.


	6. For all the love I found in you

Author's Note: Another long one, dear readers. I hope you enjoy, and do tell me if you do. Just for a frame of reference, we're just about half way through now.

_For all the love I found in you . . ._

**1990**

"Why does the staff call this the 'Spanish library'?" Clarisse mused as her fingers roamed over the spines of aged books. "Do you know?"

Joseph smiled – rather secretively she thought -- from his seat by the fire. In all the time she'd been meeting him here in this small library, he had rarely moved from that chair. Of course, sitting anywhere other than that chair might have proven to be too tempting for both of them, but still, there was something about that chair . . .

"And you've lived here how long, Majesty?" he teased.

She clucked at him and returned her attention to the row of books before her. "Many of these are in Spanish," she said. "But there are just as many in French, German, English, Italian, and Portuguese."

"There are a couple over there," he pointed to the other side of the fireplace, "in Swahili, but I've never been able to read them." He gave her another wry smile.

"Would it be so difficult to just answer my question?" She shook her head slightly, watching him watch her. Whereas once it had been unnerving, feeling his eyes on her constantly, even when they weren't; now it was almost arousing, sensing his gaze settling around her whenever they were alone and occasionally when they weren't.

"I just thought you might be interested in the Swahili," he insisted with obviously feigned innocence. "They're over there." He waved across the room.

"You just want to watch me walk across the room," she chided. Yes, his watching her had definitely grown arousing.

"Oh, I have much bigger plans than that," he boasted. He shot her the briefest of leers. "They're on the bottom shelf."

"Just for that," and she swished past him as she crossed the room, barely brushing her skirt against his arm, "I will stoop, not bend."

"Stoop?" he asked, taken aback. "How will stooping get you to the bottom shelf?"

"Joseph," she said, pulling her regal manner about herself, "surely you understand that a queen never squats."

"Hmm." He regarded her with apparent indecision. "Does a queen crouch?"

"Rarely." She reached the other side of the room and turned to face him once more.

"Hunker down?" he tried again with a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Absolutely not!" She glared at him in mock offense, but then her demeanor collapsed into gentle giggles.

"Swahili, you said?" She pivoted to the shelf and bent at the waist, knowing full well that Joseph's eyes were glued to her backside. Some part of her was incredulous that, rather than feeling cheapened by his frank appreciation, she reveled in it, even sought it out.

_Which is so very wrong,_ she thought as she stood again, fearing to turn and face the man she was very certain she not only lusted after, but loved.

"We have to stop this, Joseph," she whispered softly, wondering if she'd spoken loud enough to be heard – if she wanted him to hear.

"A part of me wishes I could," he murmured as he came to stand behind her.

He placed his hands lightly on her shoulders and she leaned back ever so slightly, relishing the feel of his hands over her, the firmness of his chest behind her. She clutched the book he had sent her for tightly to her chest. Self-pitying her words may have been, but at least they'd gotten him out of that damn chair and touching her. _Oh, dear God, can you get any more pathetic, Clarisse?_

"Do you really?" she asked plaintively. She breathed in the scent of him. It was so rare they were able to stand so close together; even when they were alone, they seldom dared.

"No." He squeezed her shoulders firmly and dropped his hands to his sides. He gently took the book from her hands and tossed it on the table behind him. "That's the problem."

"Joseph . . ." She grasped his hand quickly before he could move away. "We've never been unfaithful. Six years, Joseph, and never. Never," she insisted with a fierce shake of her head.

"But we've wanted to." He began to stroke the back of her hand with his thumb. She closed her eyes and felt his hand pull away from hers, only to return as he drew them to face one another, her hand now clasped between both of his. He lightly traced the outline of her digits with one finger while with his other hand he sketched along her veins from wrist to elbow.

"I do want you, Joseph," she breathed as he kissed each of her fingertips in turn. "I love you."

He stopped, dropped her hand as though it had bitten him, and paced slowly to his chair. He plucked at the chair's upholstery as he sat, as though uncertain what to do with his hands now. Her own felt suddenly cold without his to surround them.

"Joseph?" Her voice quavered. She had felt certain she did love him for quite some time now, but had held off telling him, unsure as to how he would receive the admission. He knew, surely he knew? But hearing it said aloud – would it change things between them?

He blew a burst of air out threw his teeth – not a sigh or a snort, but a clear expression of resignation. Slowly he brought his gaze to meet hers. "If ever I thought I could leave you . . ."

"Have you thought it?" She was suddenly apprehensive; terrified he really would leave the palace, and her.

"I've _tried_ to think it," he explained. "I've _wanted_ to think it." She turned away from him, biting her lip to keep her emotions under rigid control and he rushed on. "There's no happy ending here, Clarisse, not for any of us. But if I leave . . ." He shook his head and gave her a soft, sad smile. "I could never leave you."

"What if I left?" she said suddenly, not even certain from whence the thought had come. "What if there was no Rupert?"

"You could never do that." He came to stand behind her again and wrapped his arms around her, resting his forehead briefly on her shoulder. "And even if you could leave him, divorce him, there would still be a Rupert. I can't ask you to choose between us; could you ask it of me? We're not fifteen, my darling; we can't run off like Romeo and Juliet." His embrace tightened around her, and her world shrunk to the circumference of his arms.

"I don't recall much of a happy ending for them either," she said.

"I've never much cared for poison or daggers myself," he added.

His attempt to lighten the mood was lost on her though. She squirmed around in his arms to face him and looped her arms around his neck. He pulled back a little, startled. "I know," she spoke softly; "we've never done this before." She brushed his cheek with her lips, feather light. "It feels nice."

"It feels dangerous," he said regretfully, and firmly pushed her out of his arms. Once again he returned to his chair. "Although, yes," he added as he touched his cheek, "quite nice."

"All right," she said, seating herself at the far end of the small divan, "I guess that's quite enough playing with fire for one evening, hmm?"

"Quite enough," he agreed. He snatched up a book from the table and pretended to read for several minutes. She knew he was pretending, but she gave him the time to recover from their closest brush with adultery yet. For herself, she never wanted to recover, and yet she knew she must; once outside the door of the "Spanish library" she would be The Queen again. There had been a time when she had never set the crown aside; perhaps someday she would find that control again. But would that be better or worse?

"Pierre is arriving tomorrow, you know," she said in a desperate bid to change the subject before her maudlin thoughts consumed her.

"I know," he replied flatly.

"You don't sound very eager to see him."

"He sounds as though he's coming home to say his last good-byes." Joseph closed his book and placed it carefully in the chair at his side. Was that a challenge, Clarisse wondered.

"It's a terrific opportunity for him, Joseph," she insisted. "A posting at the Vatican."

"It's not what he wants." Joseph massaged his brow wearily. "He wants to be a parish priest – to serve God, not the Church. This is Rico's doing, Clarisse, and poor Pierre still hasn't really learned to stand on his own."

"Pierre is a good man," she flared in her son's defense.

"I know he is," he responded with equal heat. "You've done a fine job raising him! But that doesn't change the fact that--"

"We've done a fine job," she interrupted softly, recovering her own composure as soon as she realized how closely Joseph's feelings about Pierre mirrored his feelings toward her. She and Pierre were Rupert's, in Joseph's eyes, yet he wanted them both desperately for his own. And yet, though he was clearly afraid to believe it and accept it, they did both belong to him in ways they never would to Rupert.

He smiled, accepting her unspoken apology, and offered his own with his outstretched hand. She came to him and took it, marveling at how much more . . . complete, yes complete she felt when he touched her.

"I should go," she said. "We've tortured each other enough for one evening."

"Wait," he whispered hoarsely. "I have something for you." He opened the book at his side and removed a thin envelope from the back. He handed it to her and gestured for her to sit in one motion.

"What is this?" she asked as she pulled the flap of the envelope out. Inside were three photographs – one of an infant in a hospital crib, another of a toddler pouring a bucket of sand over her head, and the last of a little girl of about six sitting astride a pony. "Oh . . ." she crooned. "Is this . . .?"

"That's your granddaughter. Happy Birthday, Clarisse," he added softly.

"But, Joseph, we promised." She swallowed convulsively, choking back tears. "We promised to keep our distance until the child is eighteen."

"_I_ didn't promise," he said quietly, but very firmly. "I've been watching them both – from a distance – since the girl was born."

"Does Philippe know?" She flipped through the pictures again, lingering over each, running her fingers lovingly across the small face of her granddaughter. Although she loved her sons, the familiar ache of never having had a daughter to raise flashed through her.

"Mm-hmm." Joseph shifted in his seat. "He wasn't ready for it at first, of course, but I showed him those first two a couple of years ago. He's started writing letters to her."

"He has?" She looked to him in puzzlement. "How much distance is that? She's not supposed to know that she's royal until--"

"They're just letters, Clarisse," Joseph said calmly, "and I mail them. Philippe hasn't known exactly where they are." He paused a moment as though marshalling his thoughts. "Although I'm about to tell him. They aren't in New York anymore and I think it would be in our best interests to establish a consulate in their city. It would ease communication when – if – that becomes necessary."

"Well, yes," she said, tapping her finger on the top photo, "Philippe has rather failed to fulfill that particular duty completely, hasn't he?"

"He's not even thirty yet, and Rupert has plenty of years left, I'm sure."

His expression was so confident, and so free of the guilt that frequently marred their time alone together, she felt an insane desire to throw herself into his arms with trusting abandon. But the crown was calling, so she settled for grasping his hand and squeezing it tightly in gratitude.

"We do have the girl, Clarisse – just in case." He smiled and drew her hand to his lips, barely brushing her knuckles with his lips.

Catching the breath he had stolen from her, she asked hesitantly, "If I . . . if I were to have a letter, or a small package, would you send it for me?"

Joseph's smile grew wider; he released her hand and dipped his head in a mock bow. "Madam has only to ask, and I shall oblige."

She nodded her thanks and stood. "My birthday isn't until Saturday, you know."

"I know that quite well," he interjected with a soft smile. "But Pierre will be here, and there will be a state dinner, and we will both have a great deal of work to do. I didn't think you'd want to receive those in front of the Portuguese ambassador.

"That man!" She shook her head, remembering the last state dinner the diplomat from Lisbon had been invited to, and wishing he weren't coming to her birthday dinner. "He has more hands than anyone I've ever known."

Joseph chuckled, but shot her a telling look. "If the opportunity presents itself, the ambassador will find himself with two less hands," he growled. "Now, go. Much longer and the maids will start talking."

"That's what makes it unbearable, isn't it? No one does talk. Who would ever suspect? We could stay here all night and no one would--"

Their eyes met. Once she had thought that the windows to Joseph's soul were battened down against a fierce storm. But it was all too clear that the storm was raging inside. Love, desire, fear, guilt, all wrenched at him. She wondered if he saw the same in her. Did she want him to see it? Or could she spare him more pain by regaining that distance of old?

As she passed him she bent to whisper a final farewell, gripping his shoulder as much to anchor herself emotionally as physically, only to feel him turn his head toward her, his breath warm and enticing near her ear. "I do love you, Clarisse," he murmured.

* * *

There! Joseph poked his head into the ballroom and spotted his target leaning against the open ballroom doors. He had been looking for the royal guest since the dinner disaster. Would Rico never learn to just let the boy be? Philippe was solidly on the path to the crown; Genovia would be in good hands for years to come. Why did the King still feel the need to all but ostracize his elder son? He refused even to think about that octopus from Lisbon. Rico hadn't even seemed to notice. He paused to gather his courage and straighten his coat with a slight shrug.

"Father Pierre?" Joseph approached the prince with studied nonchalance.

"Hello, Joseph," he replied softly. "I knew you'd be skulking about somewhere." He grinned to take the sting from his comment.

"Skulking?" Joseph feigned indignance.

"My most humble apologies, honored sir." Pierre clicked his heels and bowed his head precisely.

Joseph clapped the younger man on the shoulder. With a wave of his arm he drew them both further out into the twilight. He stopped at the top of the steps leading to the gardens, surveying the scene.

"It gets better every year, doesn't it?" Pierre asked.

"More of herself," Joseph murmured.

"Hmm?" The younger man turned toward him, quizzical.

"Nothing." He shrugged off his maudlin thoughts and braced himself for the trial ahead. "Will you walk with me, Father?" He indicated the gardens below.

Though the two men walked side by side, Joseph led with no particular destination in mind. For the moment, it was enough to enjoy the late summer evening and the company of a young man he respected and admired.

"I don't believe I've ever told you, Highness," he spoke the words precisely, yet each unfolded as quietly as the blossoms around them, "that I'm quite proud of you." He cast a sidelong glance, gauging his companion's reaction.

Pierre seemed briefly startled, and then smiled. "Thank you, sir. Your good opinion means a good deal to me."

Joseph didn't respond immediately, but the prince appeared to give it no mind. They reached the gazebo and paused, once more taking in the restful sights and smells of Clarisse's gardens. He felt far from restful, however, and slowly circled the inner perimeter before speaking again.

"Your father thinks he knows what's best for you, Pierre," Joseph began, cursing himself for avoiding yet again the real topic he meant to address.

"He's never really understood," Pierre sighed. "But it's all right. You'd think he would, wouldn't you? To him, duty is all. He just can't see a duty beyond his country. I know my true duty and I'm doing my best to fulfill it." He gripped the rail to either side of him, clearly not as at ease with his father's motivations as his words implied.

"And what is your true duty, Pierre? Do you expect to fulfill it in Rome?" He stopped, glaring at the young man with unexpected intensity.

Pierre stared back, meeting his mentor's gaze firmly. Finally, with a wry nod of his head, he acknowledged Joseph's point. "My duty is to God, and to the people of Genovia. What I want to do is what I've been called to do – what my father trained me to do, in a way – to serve God and serve my people. My father just doesn't see that I'm doing what he wants, just in another way."

"Then you have to make him see." Joseph circled the interior of the gazebo again, leaving the prince to his thoughts. Restless, he drummed his hands against his legs as he paced.

"Joe, I . . ." Pierre faltered. "I want you to know how much it's meant to me. How much you've meant to me. You always listened, but you've always respected my own decisions and still supported them. If you thought badly of me, it would be a blow."

"I feel the same, but nevertheless . . ." He trailed off, uncertain.

"Nevertheless?" Pierre looked puzzled.

Joseph motioned for the younger man to sit, but did not join him. Instead, he sank heavily to his knees and clasped Pierre's left hand in both of his.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," he whispered roughly.

"Joseph, what are you . . ." He moved to pull his hand away, but Joseph grasped it more tightly.

Joseph bowed his head over their joined hands, then quickly looked up, meeting the prince's confused look. "Please," he implored.

Pierre seemed troubled, though nothing compared to what he would feel shortly, Joseph mused. But he nodded, pulled his stole from his pocket, kissed it reverently, and draped it around his neck. Joseph watched him school his features into an expression of benign compassion. When the young priest nodded again, Joseph began.

"It's been two weeks since my last confession, Father." His voice was still scarcely above a whisper. "But this particular sin has gone unconfessed for many years. I wish to . . . I need to . . . I have to tell someone."

"Go on, my son." Pierre was obviously self-conscious and uncomfortable, but Joseph had no pity to spare him.

"I'm in love," Joseph admitted in the same tone another man might confess to a devastating addiction.

Pierre visibly relaxed. "Since when is being in love a sin? I'm happy for you. I've never thought you were meant to be alone."

"Since Mt. Sinai," Joseph said flatly.

Pierre blanched.

"I am hopelessly, desperately, all-consumingly in love with another man's wife." He twisted his body around to sit on the wooden floor of the gazebo, unable to hazard the condemnation he knew he would find in Pierre's eyes.

"How long?" The priest exhaled a long pent up breath.

"About fifteen years." He squelched both the love and the pain so intertwined with thoughts of Clarisse and forced his voice into a flat tone.

"Ever since you came to the palace."

"Almost," he agreed.

"Does she . . . know?" Pierre shifted on the bench. Joseph pursed his lips, simultaneously wishing he could take back the last several minutes and wanting to pour all his guilt onto Pierre's shoulders.

"Oh, yes," he sighed.

"And does she . . . return your feelings?"

"Oh, yes," he breathed, his voice barely audible.

"And have you . . . acted on your . . . feelings . . . my, my son?"

Despite the gravity of his confession, Joseph couldn't help but smile in sympathy for the young priest. "Am I your first whopper, Highness?"

"My first what?" Pierre was startled out of his reticent voyeurism.

"Whopper. An American word. It means 'the big one'."

"Oh, I understand," the prince replied as he shifted again on the bench. "No, Joseph, I've heard other, even more serious confessions, but this is so, so unexpected . . . from you."

Joseph stared into the night, away from the young priest, all levity leached away once more.

"Why, Joseph?" Joseph felt him squeeze his hand; was that meant to be reassurance, forgiveness, or just encouragement to continue the tale? "Why now? You've kept this secret all this time, why confess now – to me?"

Joseph sighed heavily and leveraged himself up to the bench. He sat at the prince's side, staring moodily across the gardens. "I'm getting older, Highness," he said simply. "If anything should happen to me – or to her, God forbid – I want, I just want someone to know."

"So you're not really confessing this." A statement, not a query. "You're using the seal of the confessional to—"

"No!" Joseph interrupted forcefully. "I am NOT using you. This is a confession."

"But not a repentance," the younger man insisted. "You don't intend to stop being in love with this woman, do you?"

Joseph shook his head slowly. "I can't."

"Confession without repentance is meaningless, my son," he intoned.

"Okay, fair enough," Joseph nodded. "You're giving me the straight shot, and you're right, but . . ."

"Love is a choice, Joseph." Pierre let go of his hand and wrapped his fingers around Joseph's forearm. "You're choosing to still love her, even though you know it's wrong."

"Just because I can't have her doesn't mean I can't love her." He found himself wondering, not for the first time, just who he was justifying himself to. "Love may be a choice, but you don't turn it on and off like a light switch, my friend."

"I wouldn't know," Pierre admitted. "I've never really felt that. I love my parents, my brother, you, my people, some friends, but 'hopelessly, desperately, all-consumingly'? I don't know."

Joseph hung his head, thinking. Of a sudden he recalled something Clarisse had once said and turned to look fully into the young priest's eyes, heartened by the sympathy he found there and not the condemnation he'd expected. "Do you want to know what it's like? Have you ever wanted something so badly . . . so badly you could smell it with every fiber of your being, and it smelled better than anything you've ever even imagined smelling . . . but you weren't allowed to taste it? And then you did get a taste – just the smallest taste, mind. Not even a taste, really . . . the taste of a taste, and you knew then that you could live on that alone for the rest of your life – that it was all you needed. But then, you had to put it aside, all because the plate it was on belonged to someone else."

Pierre regarded him warily now, still sympathetic, but uneasy once again.

"Have you talked to my father about this woman?" Pierre asked cautiously.

"No!" Joseph mentally kicked himself for answering so quickly, so forcefully.

"That's what I thought." Pierre took Joseph's hand once more, and joined him in staring out across the gardens.

"Mother really is fabulous at this, isn't she?" With a wave of his other hand he took in the gardens and the deep red sun setting behind the palace wall.

"She's good," Joseph whispered, "but I think she had a little help with the sunset."

"Joe," Pierre pulled the older man around to face him, "she's one of the two finest people I know. I'd hate to have someone break the pedestal out from underneath her."

Joseph took Pierre's knowing look in with a combination of relief and fear. It was a relief to share the secret, for someone else to _know._ But as much as he feared ruining the man's perception of his mother, Joseph feared slipping off that other pedestal himself even more. He clasped Pierre's hand tightly. "No one ever will, son," he vowed. "No one _ever_ will."

Pierre nodded and breathed a sigh of . . . relief, regret, realization? "So you've been thinking about your true duty lately too, hmm?"

"Yes, duty is always on my mind," he said guardedly.

"Well then," Pierre paused, and Joseph experienced a brief flash of doubt. "I cannot absolve you of this sin, my son," he continued in a more officious manner, "since you are completely unrepentant."

Joseph all but crumpled inside, wondering if he had laid waste to fifteen years of secrecy in his bargain for an understanding confidante.

"However, since it would seem that your sin is essentially its own penance, I offer you my sympathy. I hope that . . ." He faltered again and his tone became familiar once again. "I hope that someday it will all work out . . . somehow . . . for everyone. Vaya con Dios, Joseph."

"You keep hoping, Father," Joseph said quietly. "I've been too afraid to hope for a long time."

"Come on," Pierre said as he stood and hauled Joseph to his feet as well. "Let's go to your place, have a drink and you can tell me what daredevilry Philippe is up to lately."

"That boy?" Joseph let out a rush of breath, relieved, and clapped Pierre on the shoulder. "That boy will be the death of all of us."

"Joe," Pierre stopped him just before they reach the palace steps, "I want you to know that . . . well, I'm proud of you, too."

Stunned, Joseph stared blankly at the prince. "Thank you, Pierre. That means more to me than you know."

"But I do know, Joe, and I'm still proud of you."

* * *

**1978**

"Right this way, Senor del Lago," Jorge Gruber, Rico's personal secretary, led Joseph down yet another long corridor. "King Rupert said you're to have your choice of quarters. Not all of the staff live in the palace, but most of the department heads at least keep palace quarters even if they have another primary residence. Do you live in Pyrus?"

"I grew up here," Joseph answered. "My mother still lives in town, but I think I'll trust the King on this one."

"So you've met King Rupert before?" The secretary's eyebrows rose enquiringly.

"Yes," Joseph replied.

"Care to elaborate?" The man's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.

"No." Joseph chuckled to himself as the eyebrows – there was really only one of them, and a bushy one at that – came crashing back down into a suspicious pout.

"Very well," Jorge recovered, "this corridor contains available staff apartments. If you want to take a look now, we can continue the tour after that."

"Continue?" Joseph asked weakly. They had already seen two throne rooms, seven conference rooms, four kitchens, a grand ballroom, three smaller dancing rooms, five sitting rooms, one grand dining room and no less than six smaller dining rooms, all of which were larger than most mess halls he'd seen in his Navy days, a receiving dock for palace supplies, and a movie theater. "Just how much more is there?"

"Senor del Lago, this is a large house and the grounds are very extensive, if you don't feel up to the job . . ."

"My job is the King," Joseph fired back, growing weary of the officious little man's trampled pride. "I'll learn the layout. I assume there are blueprints available?"

"In your office . . ."

"Which I have yet to see, I'll point out." He sent his own eyebrows as far north as possible, determined to wait the man out.

"Yes, of course," Gruber all but whined, "King Rupert was very clear about your locating acceptable quarters, however."

"Fine," he snapped, "do I just choose one?"

"King Rupert stated that you would know which quarters were yours when you saw them."

"Really? Well, let's get on with the tour then. We'll walk through each of these and any other available space. If R- King Rupert already has some space set aside for me, I'm sure I'll find it."

"Why would His Majesty plan quarters for you and not tell me about them?" The man's tone was almost, but not quite, insulting.

"Senor Gruber," Joseph began patiently, "or should it be Herr Gruber? Which do you prefer?"

"Actually," he drew out the word as though warming to a well-loved topic and Joseph winced. "Actually, my father was part Spanish and part German, but my mother was French, but of Scottish ancestry. Both were in royal service, as I have been since age ten, and so French and English were always the primary languages spoken in our home as they are in the entire palace. I prefer Monsieur Gruber." He ended with a quick bob of his head and a foot stamp that reminded Joseph of the prancing white chargers Rico's boys had ridden in the parade last week.

"Only in Genovia," he muttered, shaking his head. "I'll call you Jorge," he added decisively and passed the man into the first of the staff apartments. "Unless you'd rather I call you George!"

Three corridors, and almost as many hours later Joseph had visited his office, the King's office, the Queen's office, the housekeeper's office, two libraries, a solarium, a full scale boxing gym, and the dungeons – renovated into storage of goods, not prisoners, during the reign of King Enrique, Rupert's grandfather. They had also traipsed through any number of empty staff apartments, all of which were more than suitable for his rather Spartan needs, but none that contained a hidden message from Rico.

At the top of yet another staircase, Jorge motioned to a wide corridor to the right. "In this direction we have the royal apartments. The King and Queen each keep a suite of rooms. The Princes have connecting suites. There are also smaller private sitting and dining rooms. I expect you will need to become familiar with those as well?"

Undoubtedly," Joseph answered, and strode toward the hallway's entrance.

"Senor del Lago," Jorge gasped, "please! One does not enter the Family wing at this time of night unless one is summoned. Queen Clarisse is quite firm on that point."

"Is there anything else I should know about her?" Joseph asked with thinly veiled derision. Though quite beautiful, Rupert's wife had yet to impress him.

"You should know that she is the Queen. Never forget that." Jorge shifted the leather covered notepad he carried from one hand to the other. "She is also the single most gracious woman in the kingdom. All women aspire to be like Queen Clarisse. All fathers desire their daughters to follow Queen Clarisse's example. All--"

"I've been out of the country for a while," Joseph interrupted before the man could grow yet more effusive. "I'll be polite, and do my duty, but my job is the King. I doubt I'll need to have many dealings with the Queen."

"What's through there?" He gestured toward a closed door down the hall to the left.

"The Spanish library," Jorge replied, "very seldom used. King Rupert is fluent, of course, as is the rest of the Royal Family and many of the staff. It isn't reserved exclusively for the Family, but its proximity discourages."

"Let's look." Joseph carefully opened the large oaken door.

The room was small in comparison with most in the palace, positively dwarfed by the two ground floor libraries, yet it quite obviously warranted the appellation. The greater part of every wall was covered in books, many quite old, some clearly well used. A stone fireplace dominated one end of the room; a small sitting group of a sofa bracketed by two chairs faced it. There were several books stacked on a low table before the sofa and more on an end table next to one of the chairs. Joseph stood rooted in the doorway. For all that the room was a great deal larger, the emotions it stirred in him were the same; he felt as though he had just walked into Senor G's front parlor. Slowly, almost reverently, he approached the sitting group. Running a hand over the nearer chair's soft, worn leather, he glanced at the books on the table – All Quiet on the Western Front, Le Morte d'Arthur, The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, Plato's Republic, and Run Silent, Run Deep. On the mantle shelf sat a small wooden box, scratched a bit with age, but polished to a high gloss. Joseph was all but certain he knew what was inside.

Making his way around the front of the leather chair he dropped to his knees and flipped the large cushion up. It was still there. Burned into the leather upholstery was his name. He had been all of four years old when he'd done it, just learning to spell, the letters oddly sized. Proud of his new ability, he had written his name everywhere, and with whatever writing instrument was at hand. This time he had used a stick from the fire. His father had been home then, he couldn't recall why, but the man had never come home again. Joseph remembered his father telling him how proud he was of him, spelling it all correctly. Two years later, after the war, when times were even harder, his widowed mother had sold many of the family's possessions to feed her young sons. Senor G had purchased the chair and kept it in his front sitting room until he died.

There were no windows in the "Spanish library,' but a small door in the corner beckoned. Through the door was a generous suite of rooms – another sitting room, a small kitchen, much larger bedroom, and bath. Quite suitable, and quite definitely home. Twenty years before Rico had promised to look after the items that Senor G had left to him, but this was more than Joseph had ever expected. Every room was furnished in some fashion with objects that had once belonged to their old mentor. On the very familiar desk in the sitting room he found a letter in Rico's hand held in place by the '28 he'd given him earlier in the day.

Joe,

Once you've found this, come find me. By now I'm probably in my private office – third door on your left down the family hall. We can share the bottle and I'll quiz you on the damn Greeks.

Best hurry if you expect any of your mother's cookies,

R

He carefully folded the letter and slipped it into his jacket pocket, snagged the bottle off the desk and went back out to the library. "We're finished here, Jorge," he said as he picked Plato up from the round table. "I'll start my day in my office tomorrow, getting to know my staff, but I'm sure we'll see quite a bit of each other, so if I have any further questions . . ." he trailed off as he left the library and made his way toward the family wing.

"Senor del Lago," Jorge called softly, "you can't."

Joseph clutched book and wine together in one arm and fished in his pocket for Rico's note. Waving it in the air, he called back jauntily, "Ah, but I've been summoned."


	7. I'll be forever thankful

**Author's Note:** This was supposed to be a filler chapter -- a bit of a break before we got up to the heavy events immediately prior to PD1. But you know, sometimes the characters just drag you kicking and screaming down a path you didn't know was there. We must presume that they know best.

_I'll be forever thankful . . ._

**1997**

"Rupert, are you listening to me?" Clarisse seemed unable to keep the edge out of her voice.

"Hmm . . ." He glanced about the room as though having forgotten where she was sitting. "What was that, Clarisse?"

"That was the sound of your five-hundred year old dynasty shattering into a million pieces." She turned from the window she had just forcefully closed against the cool November air. "Philippe. Rupert, you do remember your son, the Crown Prince with no heir to follow him?"

"He's still practically a boy." Rupert knocked back the shot of whiskey he'd been holding for the better part of half an hour.

"He's thirty-three!" Clarisse marveled at her own rising anger. The last thing she wanted was to force her son into an unwanted marriage, but where was Rupert's vaunted "duty to Genovia"? Putting off an arranged marriage when Philippe had been sixteen was one thing, but now the poor man would very likely be faced with a sixteen year-old bride. The longer they put this off the murkier the succession would likely become. She wasn't aware of any grandchildren other than Amelia in America, but that didn't mean they didn't exist. Philippe was, after all, a very handsome and charismatic young man. And before much longer the cousins would be coming out of the woodwork; Rupert's three sisters and Christophe's siblings had all been amazingly fertile. And yet Christophe and Rupert in turn had always prided themselves on being part of an unbroken line from father to son stretching back five centuries. "Why are you fighting this, Rupert?"

"Why are you pushing it?" he bellowed.

Her stunned expression must have shone quite clearly because he immediately deflated.

"Clarisse, I . . ." he paused and took several deep breaths. If she hadn't known him so well for so long, she would have thought he was truly agonized. But she was helping him to fulfill the duty that had governed his life . . .

"I'm sorry," he said shakily. "I know you mean well. But dear God, Clarisse, it's almost the twenty-first century! Do we really have the right to force him the way our parents did us? I've already pushed him out of one marriage; I don't want to make the other side of that mistake."

"Are we a mistake, Rupert?" she asked quietly. She both feared and longed for his answer. Would it absolve her guilt? Or escalate it?

"That's not what I meant." He reached for her hand as if to apologize, but she held back. It occurred to her that she had never denied him in nearly forty years together. She knew she had never really given all of herself, and he had certainly asked for less as the years had gone by, but she had never consciously denied him anything – until now.

"Yet I'm still asking it," she firmly stated as she folded her hands before her.

"He truly loved that girl, Clarisse," Rupert's eyes looked vaguely panicked – not as though he had anything specific to hide, but certainly as if he would avoid that conversation with all the strength he could muster.

"Is there someone else, Rupert?" Clarisse found she had untapped strength of her own to muster. Once again, she both dreaded and longed for his answer.

He stared at her, clearly dumbfounded – and yet wary. He slumped heavily into the chair by the window. "No," he insisted softly, "there's never been anyone else."

_Guilt escalated, most definitely._

"Philippe . . . he had something that I never have. As young as they were, she _loved _him. She _knew_ him. And he loved her. I never even believed that all that was real until the last few years, and now . . . now that I know what I've been missing, it's too late to find it." He turned to glare moodily out the window.

"Rupert," she whispered, lightly touching his shoulder, "I love you."

"It's not the same," he murmured. "It's not youth because we've never felt the way he described. You must know it's not the same." He looked at her hopefully as if he had suddenly realized he might be hurting her terribly and desperately hoped he wasn't.

"I know," she said, patting his shoulder in the same way she had comforted the boys years before. "But I can't quite see Philippe pouring out his emotions to you," she added, hoping to lighten his mood.

"Hah!" he snorted, rising to the moment. "Enough alcohol in that boy and he'll talk about anything." He twisted in his chair and caught her eye, smiling sadly. "I'll be fine, Clarisse, and so will you. I'd just like to be able to give my son another chance."

"Then let's give him that chance," she said as brightly as she could. "Let's give him all the chances we can." She came around his chair and sat on the ottoman at his feet. "We'll throw a series of balls – one grand and glorious party after another. We'll invite every suitable woman on the continent, and give Philippe the chance to fall in love, or at least the chance to choose for himself."

"And see if Cinderella comes to the ball?" he asked wryly.

"Anything can happen, Rupert." She patted his knee affectionately. "Now go to bed, my dear and true and friend. You look as though you haven't slept in days."

"I haven't," he confessed. "You should get some sleep, too, Clarisse. Lots of party planning to do in the morning after all."

"That's true," she equivocated. "But I think I'll run down and see if Joseph will let me peruse his library for a few minutes. I need something to read to help me get to sleep." She forced herself to breathe calmly and regularly. In all the years that she and Joseph had been meeting to . . . to what, really? To talk, to hold hands? In all that time she had never excused it to Rupert in any way; neither had he ever seemed to need one from her. He trusted her, and he trusted Joseph. And they were sneaking off to wallow in the one thing Rupert wanted in his life and had decided he would never have.

Perhaps she shouldn't go to him. Perhaps she should just go to her own suite, turn off the lights, and try to forget about her love and her guilt. She sighed softly as Rupert rose to leave. Perhaps she should – but she wouldn't.

* * *

**1998**

Joseph braced himself rigidly, forcing himself to not draw Clarisse tightly against his body. This was the fourth royal ball in as many months and dancing with her was growing maddening. Thanks to what amounted to excuses on Rico's part he had been able to safely claim three or four dances each evening with Her Majesty. She was an exquisite dancer, light on her feet, and so fluid. She had the exasperating habit of brushing against him, however, whenever she felt she could get away with it. Admiring her from across the room was mind-numbing, even after twenty years; feeling her hands, her arms, her thighs press against his own would soon turn him into a gibbering, salivating idiot. He smiled politely, but at his most stern, and bowed to her as the song ended.

"Thank you, madam," he spoke in measured tones, "for a most touching dance. Your Majesty is, as ever, a delightful partner. He squeezed her hand a bit too tightly in gentle admonishment. "I think I'm going to get some air. If you'll excuse me?"

He made a rapid escape through the doors to the terrace and found a cool, dark corner in which to think cool, dark thoughts and adjust the fit of his clothing. _Cold showers . . . no, not showers, you'll imagine her there. Snow . . . no, no, snow leads to skiing, skiing leads to curled up in a lodge with . . . ICE! Being thrust into a vat of ice, completely surrounding . . ._

A gentle hand brushed his shoulder. "Oh, give it up!" he said forcefully, not realizing he'd spoken aloud.

"I beg your pardon!" Clarisse backed away, startled at his vehemence.

He quickly clutched her hand and drew her deeper into the shadows. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice low. "I was trying to not throw you over my shoulder and carry you off into the moonlight."

"You weren't very successful, were you?" She smiled secretively. "Here we both are, and here's the moonlight." She drew her hand along his cheek, inflaming him once again.

"Wicked woman," he teased, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing the inside of her wrist.

"And what of you, Sir Joseph?" she asked as she brushed her hand down his chest and lingered just above his belt line. "Wearing my favorite cologne? Dressed more crisply than any other man in Genovia?"

He looked at her askance. "Your Majesty, have you been drinking?"

"Joseph del Lago, what a scandalous thing to suggest. The Queen never gets drunk, you should know that. Everyone else is simply a trifle dull." She leered at him. _Yes, that was definitely a leer._ "I have been drinking, though," she went on as she wrapped her arms loosely about his neck. "And I want to keep on drinking you in."

He coughed in warning, hoping to deter, hoping she would not be deterred, and pulled back, but not out of her embrace. And then quite suddenly her lips were on his and any thought of deterrence, indeed, any thought at all, was long forgotten. She brushed across him lightly at first, hesitant yet determined, and he settled into the last first kiss of his life. He enfolded her in his arms and she grew bolder, nibbling at his bottom lip. When her tongue flicked briefly against his lips, the flames she had stirred in him flashed into a raging inferno. He eagerly grasped either side of her head and tilted her to better fit against him and plunged deeply, fiercely within, tasting what he had forbidden himself for twenty years. She jerked against him, startled by his ferocity perhaps, but soon softened under his heat, and responded with equal hunger.

Her hands played at the nape of his neck, tickling, annoying, arousing, and yet oddly soothing all at once. His found their way into her hair, and his world shrunk to the sensation that was Clarisse. He felt the silken strands of her hair, smelled the rosewater from her bath, heard her soft moans as he pulled her closer still, and tasted the devastating sweetness of her mouth laced with perhaps a trifle more wine than a queen should safely drink. Without his conscious direction, his right hand wandered – down the straight column of her neck, across the ridge and slope of her shoulder, over the curve of her arm to the soft swell of her breast. Breaking away for air, his lips followed the path of his hand and he nuzzled her neck as she stretched, giving him better access. His fingers slipped underneath her bodice and stroked sensitive flesh, answering her satisfied sigh with his own.

Then lightning flashed between them and she was out of his arms and gasping for breath. "Joseph, no, no, please no." She shook her head furiously, her arms wrapped around her, her eyes bored into his, pleading for understanding.

Just as breathless and furiously trying to still his racing heart, Joseph tore his gaze from hers and stared at his hands, aghast. "Dear God, Clarisse, I'm sorry . . ."

"I started it, Joseph," she whispered, her fingers flying to her lips. Did she mean to wipe his kiss away or hold it there? "I'm sorry . . ."

"I should go," they chorused. As their heavy breathing and speeding hearts came gradually under control, their gazes locked, no longer touching, yet still joined. "I should go," they said again, but she was faster, regretfully looking away and turning toward the south doors – away from the ballroom and prying eyes.

He strode heavily out onto the terrace and leaned on the balustrade overlooking her gardens. Almost nothing was yet in bloom and still he could smell roses. He buried his head in his hands and muttered to himself, "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

Morosely surveying the tableau before him, he decided that it suited the moment. Earlier in the day the gardens had shown all the varying shades of green that come with spring's new growth. A few moments ago, in the moonlight and freshly aroused from dancing, it had been a silver and ivory landscape. Now, with the moon behind high scudding clouds and his betrayal of Rico all but complete, it was just gray – variegated shades of gray, to be sure, but about as devoid of new life and hope as he might expect to find.

They had both been foolish, so very foolish, playing at being friends, only occasionally acknowledging the depths of passion roiling below the surface. And what had they done, really, during their all too scarce interludes over the years? Talk, learn each other's histories, desires, secrets? So much he had done with Rico as boys, and with as many as a dozen others at various times, friends and lovers. Hold hands? He scraped his palms along the stone, thinking to override the memory of her hands in his. He must have made love to her hands a hundred times in the last ten years. He shivered at the thought of what it would be like to truly make love to all of her. If caressing her hand was bliss and dancing with her mind blowing, taking Clarisse to his bed would surely be the death of him.

But then, her kiss had done that already – or his had, theirs had. How could he possibly look Rico in the eye now? The last twenty years had been a horror he'd grown gradually accustomed to; his initially unintentional betrayal of his dearest friend counterbalanced by the abiding joy of his dearest love. But now? Now there could be no pretending that she was just his best friend's wife. There could be no rationalizing their time spent huddled over a book in the library as two scholars engaged in literary debate. There could be no passing off his hand snugged low on her back as simply guiding her through a room. There could be no hiding it now.

"Joe?" the familiar rich voice sunk him further into panicked despair. "Are you all right?" Rico joined him, leaning against the balustrade.

"I'm fine," he choked out hoarsely.

"You don't sound fine," Rico pushed. "Anything I can do?"

"No," Joseph said. "I've just had enough of the party."

Rico leaned forward and twisted to look him in the eye. "You dog!" he chortled. "Who is she?"

Joseph pulled back, looking pointedly away. "Who is who?" he asked in badly feigned innocence.

"The woman whose lipstick is all over your face, my friend," the king chuckled. "Come on, don't hold out on me."

"Rico," he said wearily, "I'd really rather--"

"Ever the gentleman, eh?" Rico shifted against the stone, shoving Joseph lightly in the arm. "Who am I going to tell?"

"It doesn't matter any more, Rico," he said quietly, still unable to meet his sovereign's eyes. "It's over." He tried to rein it in but let out a heavy sigh. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at the red evidence of his guilt – blood on his face, now on his hands. Maybe it hadn't been a physical death, but he and Clarisse had been killing his friendship with Rico in small measures for years; had tonight been the final blow?

"I'm sorry to hear that, Joe," he said as he stared out across the budding gardens. "More sorry than you know." He laid his own handkerchief across Joseph's arm. "It's more than a one hankie mess, I'm afraid."

"Are you in love with her?" Rico asked.

Joseph glanced toward him, startled and wary, but didn't quite make eye contact. "Rico, I _really_ don't want to talk about it . . ."

"I don't mean to pry. I only ask because it's been on my mind lately. That's what all these damn parties are about, you know." He nudged Joseph again. "It's supposed to be working for Philippe, but if it ends up working for you . . . well, I guess that's something."

"I think your age is finally catching up to you, old friend," he said sourly.

"She certainly has done a number on you."

"It's been a mutual numbers game."

"So . . . are you in love with her?"

Joseph scanned the gardens, pointedly avoiding Rico's attempts to catch his eye. Near the south end of the palace he spotted Clarisse, dabbing at her face with a cloth and periodically checking herself in a small hand mirror. As she turned the mirror reflected the light from the palace windows and flashed brightly. He smiled in resignation – something about Clarisse always seemed to light his way.

Taking a deep breath he turned and met Rico's gaze. He held it, pouring all the intensity he had left into the stare. "Yes, Rico," he said softly, firmly, "I do love her."

The king gave him a sad smile. "Then good luck to you, Joe. All the best," he added, clapping him on the shoulder.

Joseph glanced down, unable to stomach the ramifications of his attempted confession gone misunderstood. "Rico, I . . . I need some time off."

"What?" He seemed startled at what must appear a non sequitir. "All right. I don't see why not. All we have is more of these damn parties coming up. For how long will you be gone?"

"I'm not sure."

"Joe," he warned, "you promised me. No more wandering off. You've already seen the world; what more is there?"

"I just need some time away, Rico," he explained. "I need to spend some time with my family."

"How is your mother?" Rico softened his stance. "You know you're more than welcome to bring her here. Clarisse would love to have another woman around . . ."

"No," he said quickly. "No," a bit more softly, "she's comfortable. She doesn't want to leave her home. My nephew and his wife are moving back to Pyrus. She wants to be able to spend time with them. She's either going to leave us in a year or two or still be around for the _next_ new millennium. She's one tough old lady."

"She survived _you_, she'd have to be." Rico turned his gaze to the stars. "I remember her. She was always sad. Senor G was the only one who could make her laugh – except for you. I always wondered why they didn't make a go of it."

"They were the best of friends," Joseph explained, "but that's all it ever was. After my father died, Senor G took care of us, watched out for us. It might have been more on his part, but I think my mother saw him more as a brother."

"Do you think she loved your father?"

"You really are obsessed with this love thing, aren't you?"

"I've never really been in love, Joe. Can you believe it? I'm nearly sixty-five and I've never been in love." He turned, and with a strength that belied his age, hoisted himself up to sit on the stone ledge. "I always thought it was fairy tale rubbish, until Philippe started opening up over the Glenfiddich."

"I've never asked, but . . ." Joseph swallowed past the tightness in his throat. "All these years, you've never, umm . . . you've always been . . ."

"Have I always been faithful to my wife?" Rico asked him with a chuckle. "Hell, Joe, you've been arranging my security for twenty years; don't you think you'd know?"

"Frankly, Rico," he said, hesitant and uncertain as to just what was going to come pouring out of his mouth, "if you weren't, I don't think I'd want to know. Clarisse is a good woman, a great woman. She deserves better than . . ."

"Than me?" Rico pointed to his chest, his eyes flashing through anger and indignance to settle at amusement. "It had to happen eventually," he said, now shaking his finger at Joseph. "It took her a while, but eventually she wraps everyone around her finger. I thought maybe you'd be immune, but even the mighty do fall." He laughed easily and chucked Joseph on the shoulder again. "You're right though. She does deserve better than me. She deserves . . . she deserves someone who truly loves her, Joe, and I don't know if she's ever had that either."

Joseph looked down again, not trusting himself to speak. _Just do it. Tell him._

"Joe," Rico began after a laden pause, "if anything should ever happen to me, you'd still look after them wouldn't you? Philippe, of course, would still need a Head of Security. But Clarisse will need . . . somebody, a friend. We're certainly not like Senor G and his wife, but she is going to need a real friend. Pierre has God; he doesn't need anyone." He paused again, gathering his breath, and jumped from the ledge, taking Joseph by the shoulders. "She's going to need someone. She loves you as much as I do – like a brother. Promise me you'll look after her as well as you have me? Promise me you'll be Senor G for Clarisse as well as for Pierre."

_Damn you, Rico. Why can't you just open your eyes and SEE? She definitely loves me, but not anything like a brother._

"I won't let you down, Rico," he vowed. _But for the time being, del Lago, you will stay away from her. No hiding anything because there won't be anything more to hide. Stop being stupid!_ "You aren't trying to tell me something, are you?"

"What? You mean, am I dying? No, I'm planning on making your life difficult for a while yet." He laughed ruefully. "I just want her to be happy. I want her to be safe."

"I don't know about making her happy, Rico, but I'll always protect her."

* * *

**1991**

". . . and Comte de Vries will be in the blue room. His wife, however, will be in the Lace Suite down the hall."

Joseph shot the Queen's private secretary a confused look as he quietly entered the royal suite of the Winter Palace. Most of the Genovian nobility were arriving over the course of the next few days either to celebrate the Christmas holidays with the royal family, renew their New Year's oaths to King Rupert, or both. Seldom had there been security issues beyond drunken vandalism and small scale pilfering – what was so appealing about a towel or an ashtray from the palace, Joseph would never fathom – but it was his job to be informed and aware.

"Don't ask," Jeanine whispered as she returned her attention to the Queen. "Prince Pierre has requested a smaller room more befitting his station, but I told him you wouldn't hear of it. And Lord and Lady Fricker will be in the Veridian Suite, your Majesty."

"Ah, Lord Fricker," Clarisse interrupted. "Oh, hello, Joseph," she added brightly, glancing toward the door. "Come to confirm the arrangements for Lord Fricker, have you?"

He dipped his head in respectful acknowledgement. "Prince Philippe and I have discussed the situation, madam, and we have everything under control."

"As much as we have always relied upon your expertise, Joseph, I would like a little more elaboration." She closed the folder her secretary had given her listing room assignments for the coming weeks. "If that's all, Jeanine?" Her tone made it clear that even if it wasn't, it was.

"Certainly, your Majesty." She left the room with a graceful half bow and a quick, sympathetic glance to Joseph.

For several heartbeats they remained still, he standing ramrod straight near the now closed door, she sitting precisely at the edge of her chair, hands folded loosely on her knee.

"Do you really want to know about security arrangements?" he asked huskily once he no longer heard the echo of footsteps in the hall.

"I want to know about security in San Francisco," she insisted pointedly. "I don't think Lord Fricker is a very good choice for a consul, but I don't have any say on that note."

"I've reviewed his staff choices, if it makes you feel any better, and I've assigned security for the new consulate myself." He edged closer behind her chair and rested his hands lightly on her shoulders.

"And my granddaughter?" There was a catch in her voice; Joseph doubted that many would have caught it, but he knew every lilt and timbre of her voice. He knew she longed for some contact with the child, and yet she had honored the agreement with the girl's mother and never reached out. If only Philippe would stop dallying around and get her some grandchildren she could dote on, he would worry less about her thoughts straying halfway around the world. He brushed his hands across her shoulders, not quite an intimate caress.

"I have a man in place, Clarisse," he assured her quietly. "She may never know it, but your granddaughter is as much under my protection as you are."

"Thank you, Joseph," she whispered.

"I am at your service, madam," he said cheekily, squeezing her shoulders and running his thumbs up the back of her neck.

She tilted her head back, smiling up at him, and said almost dreamily, "I love it when you do that."

"What? Rub your neck?" His fingers stilled, but he did not remove his hands. "I probably shouldn't."

"You definitely shouldn't, but that's not what I meant." She took his hands in her own and pulled him around to face her.

As he sat on the low table before her, he marveled at her fingers gently stroking his. It was wrong, these times they stole for each other right under the noses of King and country. It was even more wrong that they had been able to hide it for so long. And yet it felt so right to hold her hand in his, so right to take her in his arms, so right to share the large and small burdens of their separate duties.

"No, it's . . . oh, it's going to sound silly." Did she actually blush? Joseph couldn't be sure. Even in their times alone it had happened seldom.

"You could never be silly, Clarisse," he reassured her.

She sighed. "Sometimes I wish I could be," she said wistfully.

"Then tell me," he prodded as he traced the lines of her palm.

"I love it when you call me 'madam.' I know it sounds ridiculous, but no one else calls me that." She took a deep breath and rushed on. "Rupert only ever calls me by name; the boys call me 'mother,' and to everyone else I'm 'your Majesty.' You call me 'darling' and 'dear' sometimes when we're alone, but I . . ." She ran out of breath, her eyes fixed on their joined hands.

Joseph smiled, suddenly aware of just how much he gave her, of how much she had come to need him.

"And what do you hear, madam," he emphasized the courtesy, "when I address you so?" He squeezed her hand lightly, encouraging her to meet his eyes.

Slowly, she did. "I hear 'my darling,' 'my dear' . . ."

"My precious?"

"Yes," she breathed.

"I'll remember that," he promised. He quickly brought her hand to his lips for a kiss, and then abruptly stood. "I should go; Rupert's waiting for me."

"Tell him I said hello," she said wryly. He leant forward and cupped her cheek, running his thumb over her smooth skin. He turned to leave and she caught his hand around the back of the chair.

"Joseph," she murmured, "thank you."

He squeezed her hand again and let go. "My pleasure, madam, my pleasure."


	8. You're the who held me up

_You're the one who held me up, never let me fall . . ._

**1999**

Black silk draped the throne back at the palace. Black crepe was swathed across the altar here in St. Sebastian's. Black wool, black linen, black rayon, black cotton, even black polyester covered every mourner in the church and thousands of others across the Genovian countryside. Black lace veiled her face. Black curtains blocked every window of the palace and most homes and businesses throughout Pyrus. Black leather encased her son's hand that firmly clasped her own. Black thoughts cloaked the Queen.

Try as she might, Clarisse could not stay focused on the archbishop's words. He was currently delivering a rather lengthy homily on the life of Rupert Renaldi –_your husband, for God's sake, Clarisse! –_ but her thoughts wandered back and forth through the morbid events of the last week. There had been the terrible fight, first with her, then with Joseph. And Joseph! Still, after over a year, and even through all that happened that horrible night, he would not look at her, would not touch her, hold her . . . And then the accident – the horrible, unbelievable accident. How many trips to the hospital had she made? How many nights had she slept in a chair despite Jeanine's efforts and the doctors' aghast requests? And Joseph! The poor, dear man! He had yet to express it that she could see, but his grief and his self-condemnation was tangible, to her, if to no one else. Then working through the funeral plans –_ Thank you, God, for Pierre and Sebastian Motaz! –_ and suffering through the pathetic jockeying for position amongst Genovia's elite. And Joseph! Dark as night in dress and in mood, he had been unwilling to put himself forward, to claim the rights to which lifelong friendship and grief entitled him – a friendship that she alone, and possibly Pierre, truly understood.

Today, which should have been the culmination of the week's sorrows, the beginnings of some closure, was merely one more black day among so many. Perhaps it would help if she could actually concentrate on Rupert, work through just how she felt about his sudden death, but each time she managed to bring her thoughts captive, they escaped once again to the man behind her.

He was the lead pall bearer – Pierre had flatly insisted on that despite the fact that those mostly honorary positions had not been identified in Rupert's funeral plan. His coffin had been carried by horse drawn caisson; the pall bearers had walked the funeral route alongside. Clarisse had seen Joseph's face once as they had prepared to depart the palace gates, she and Pierre following behind the coffin and its honor guard. It was tight, drawn, and still showing vague traces of shock. She knew he would have appreciated the honor shown him had there been anyone else in the coffin other than Rupert. Even having had glimpses into Joseph's relationship with Rupert, it seemed odd; she had lost a husband, and yet Joseph was the one bereft.

Now he sat behind her, his breathing calm but so very shallow – _another legacy of the past week, becoming so attuned to slight changes in a man's breathing. Which is exactly where your thoughts should be right now, not on Joseph, no matter how miserable he is. Remember your duty – your duty to Genovia._

Pierre was standing, his hand beneath her elbow drawing her up. Had she spent the entire service musing about Joseph? They knelt in turn to receive communion, and she concentrated fiercely on the wafer dissolving on her tongue, the sip of sacramental wine warming her throat. As she returned to her seat, Pierre still at her side, she could just glimpse Joseph kneeling before the altar. His mouth was open for the deacon to place the body of Christ, but his eyes never wavered from the black-draped casket containing the body of his king. Pierre squeezed her hand and caught her eye as she paused; gently, almost imperceptibly, he urged her forward. She quickly slipped into her chair and turned her gaze back to the altar. _Does __Pierre__ know? No, he couldn't possibly! He was already at the seminary when she and Joseph first admitted the depth of their feelings. _He was Joseph's friend that was all, she mused, and so concerned about him as she was. Indeed, she should learn from her son, because a friend was all Joseph could ever be to her now. If it hadn't been for that horrible argument, Rupert might still be alive now . . .

* * *

Joseph cringed as the casket slammed into the crypt with oppressive finality. This mausoleum had been a project of King Christophe; Joseph recalled a history lesson here with Senor G as a boy. Early in his reign, King Christophe had commissioned the marble monstrosity and arranged for the transfer of remains of nearly five centuries worth of Renaldi rulers. Ever the optimist, and as devoted to his family's preservation as he had taught his son to be, there was room for at least another five centuries worth. In the exact center of the courtyard of the mausoleum stood a larger than life statue of King Verdadero Renaldi, founder of the royal line; his remains were buried beneath. Rumored to have been the illegitimate Spanish son of a Prussian noble, who in turn was almost certainly the bastard of a renegade Scottish clan lord, Verdadero nevertheless forged a unified nation out of a few square miles of what had been land claimed by both Spain and France. An opportunist, by Joseph's estimations, but a successful one.

Along the east wall were plaques detailing the lives and marking the location of each of Verdadero's descendants. Joseph scanned row upon row of royal resting places as the priest began the Lord's Prayer. Joseph's lips recited with the rest of the small group present without consciously registering the well-remembered words. There was King Francis, who founded Genovia's University; and there was King Chevalier, the first Genovian monarch to entertain an American President; a little ways down was King Alonso, ruler during the First World War and father to King Christophe. Joseph stopped his historical scan and turned his gaze to the engraved ceiling; he would NOT contemplate the most recent addition here. Rupert should not be dead – would not be dead had it not been for Joseph. He had been selfish and negligent, placing his own emotional quandary over his duty, and here was the result.

Despite his self-mortification, or perhaps in response to it, his gaze drifted to Clarisse. She was pale and drawn; he knew what little sleep she'd had this week had been in a chair in a hospital room. Her eyes were firmly focused on the end of Rupert's casket. Her hands were clasped tightly before her. _Let it go, Joe! If she was off limits before, she's even more so now. You don't deserve her._

He had exchanged no more words with her than had been necessary this past week, and yet, when he had not been actively nursing the ache that was his best friend's permanent absence, she filled his thoughts. Thank God for Shades and Pierre or he would never have made it this far. Shades was perceptive enough to pick up on Joseph's grief, if not all the reasons for it, and had taken on the bulk of the administrative workload this week, freeing Joseph to focus exclusively on Clarisse and Philippe. Not that he provided much security, he mused, but at least he was physically there, making up in some pathetically small measure for the moment when he hadn't been. And Pierre? Well, Pierre _knew_; and having him know was all the comfort Joseph could ask for at this point.

He watched her place a few small items at the foot of the casket in preparation for the closing of the crypt. Strange, these remnants of ancient ceremonies that no longer carried the same meanings – and, yet, as Senor G had often remarked, they gave comfort and continuity to an otherwise confusing existence. One of the young priests assisting the archbishop stepped forward to swing the heavy door shut, but Pierre stepped forward, stopping his fellow cleric with a brief touch on the shoulder and shake of his head.

Pierre faced the crypt and carefully removed his black leather gloves, nodding as Clarisse backed ever so slightly away. No one murmured but all eyes were on the priest-prince as he stepped forward to do his final duty to his earthly father. "Au revoirs, papa. Je t'aime," he whispered. Planting his feet, he grasped the end of the door with both hands and slowly, firmly closed it. The grating of the stone echoed throughout the chamber. "Pouvoir il se repose dans la paix," he intoned.

"May he rest in peace," the assembled family, dignitaries, and priests repeated in a variety of languages.

Joseph bowed his head, but still sensed Pierre stepping over to kiss his mother softly on the cheek. He was startled when the younger man loomed in front of him, offering a handshake and a knowing clap on the shoulder. Before he was even aware it was happening, Pierre pulled him into a swift embrace. The young prince said nothing, but bestowed on Joseph a quick kiss of peace before turning to escort the Queen out of the mausoleum.

Clarisse's eyes sparkled with tightly reined in tears. Joseph quickly looked away, concerned that if he met her gaze, one or both of them might completely lose control. He hung back, waiting for the others to pass, his position of honor eschewed. She was saddened, of that there was no doubt. They had been friends, after all. And yet he felt certain that Clarisse's tears were more for him or for Pierre than they were for Rupert.

It was odd, really – she had shared his bed for many years, and yet in so many ways his own relationship with Rico had been more intimate. Even when he'd been away all those years, every experience had been tinged by their friendship – what would Rico think, how would Rico react, what would Rico have done? He had to go back in time over fifty years to find a memory that wasn't somehow connected to his friend. Even his time alone with Clarisse over the last fifteen years had been overshadowed by their respective friendships and duties to Rupert.

And in the end, of course, that had doomed it . . . and him . . .

* * *

It had been more than a year since he'd held her hand, since he'd huddled with her over a book in his library, looked deeply into her eyes, danced with her – more than a year since he'd kissed her. Once again they had crossed a barrier and reached a higher plateau in their relationship. And once again, they had silently, mutually agreed to this self-imposed distance as they each worked out how it impacted their separate relationships with Rico. Joseph had devoted himself anew to Rupert's service. Once again, the staff had taken to calling him "the King's shadow" – appropriate, he thought, given his rather uniform attire.

Rupert was clearly oblivious to the undercurrents from the previous spring's royal balls and just as clearly relieved, along with the rest of the royal family and the palace staff, that Prince Philippe had settled into a reasonably stable liaison with Lady Genevieve from Lipitz. An engagement announcement was expected almost any day.

Why Joseph found himself passing near the Queen's door that evening he wasn't sure. He'd been fighting a low grade headache all day – sinuses, he thought, as he massaged the back of his skull and pulled at his buzzing left ear. Even just a quick glimpse of Clarisse would ease that discomfort, though certainly increase frustration elsewhere. Her doors were wide open as he approached however, and the raised voices from within only escalated his headache.

"Rupert," Clarisse reprimanded firmly, "it is NOT what you think!" Joseph could easily imagine the flash in her eyes to match the snap of her voice.

"Clarisse," Rico's voice was weary, but loud, "I know what this book meant to Joe. It was his mother's! He wouldn't have given it to just anyone."

_Oh, hell._ His mother had died a couple of months ago, and Rico and Clarisse had both worn black as a show of support for him. Sorting through his mother's things, he'd come across a slim volume of poetry that she had always carried with her. Somehow, it had just seemed right to give it to Clarisse. Writing the personal note inside had perhaps not been the wisest course . . .

"And you can't very well dispute what he's said here, can you?" Rupert turned snide, his pride and vanity clearly affronted.

"Rupert," she pleaded softly, though more as one might corral a recalcitrant child, "you don't understand-"

"Oh don't I?" he roared, apparently even more furious at being coddled than at being betrayed. "How long have you been sleeping with him, Clarisse?"

Joseph stood rooted to his post in the hall, relieved that the security station at the end of the corridor was momentarily unmanned – though he would address that in the morning. He should go. He really should go and quietly close the doors before he left. He should go. He should pack his bags and leave without even saying good-bye. He should go.

"I know we haven't had much of a physical relationship for a long time, Clarisse," Rupert was fuming, "but that doesn't give you leave to go around screwing everyone else!"

And so Joseph went. Not down the hall, not out the front door, not back to sea, but straight into the lion's den that was the Queen's private suite to beard the great royal lion of Genovia himself.

"That's way out of line, Rico, and you well know it," he growled menacingly. Joseph shot a quick appraising glance to Clarisse, who turned to look out the window.

"And here he is – my _friend_!" Rico bellowed. "My bosom, true friend who has never deserted me! He's just screwed my wife behind my back!" Rico advanced on him, and Joseph quickly pulled the doors closed behind him.

"I have done no such thing," Joseph answered calmly. He kept his hands tight at his sides, determined to outlast Rico's outburst. True enough, in his dreams he had done just what Rico said, but he was damned if he'd let Clarisse be blamed for something that had never happened in the flesh.

"Then explain this, Joe!" he shouted, brandishing the book in his face. "Explain why you would write a love poem to my wife. What right have you to-"

"I love her," he said simply. "And you've been drinking," he added as he ducked to avoid the clumsy swing Rico threw at him. He was surprised at just how easy the words had been to say. Of course, he'd had little choice to say anything else at this point. The poem had been tastefully graphic and filled with frustrated longing.

"You love her?" Rico stopped, stunned, and then pivoted to eye Clarisse. "And you?" he asked her plaintively.

When she nodded sharply, he spun from the window to the door, looking from his wife to his best friend. "Hell, that's even worse," he said as he slumped into a chair.

"Rupert," Clarisse whispered, her voice broken by unshed tears. She reached out a hand to brush his shoulder.

"No," he spat curtly. "No!" he roared, surging out of the chair. "I can't-"

"Rico," Joseph began softly.

"Out of my way, Joe!" he snarled, shoving Joseph aside. "I'm going down to the track with Philippe." He turned and gave Clarisse a withering look. "My son knows all about love and betrayal. We should have plenty to talk about." He stormed through the doorway, pausing only to shoot a hurt-filled look at Joseph.

"I'm sorry," Joseph whispered as soon as Rico's steps faded away. "I never should have written that."

"No, you shouldn't," she agreed, smiling bleakly, "but I rather enjoyed it." She turned to look at him, her tears beginning to trickle down her ivory skin. "Joseph, it's been so very long . . ."

"Clarisse, I . . ." His voice was husky with pent up love and desire. He coughed to clear his throat and again rubbed at his buzzing left ear – a warning he should have heeded earlier. "We can't; you know we can't."

"Maybe now we can," she said hopefully, though with little enthusiasm.

"What was that he was saying about Philippe?" he asked, moving to stand behind her at the window. She was close enough to touch and yet he dared not.

"Oh," she snorted, "Lady Genevieve eloped with her gardener this afternoon. Philippe isn't taking it very well."

"And now, neither is Rupert," Joseph added glumly. His fingers ached at not reaching for her hand.

"The timing is unfortunate," she admitted.

"And so Philippe thinks he can drive away his troubles?" Joseph glanced out the window just in time to see the Crown Prince spin a 360 in front of the palace. Rico jogged down the steps, nodding approvingly and motioning for Philippe to give him the driver's seat. Philippe stepped out, his breath frosty in the cool March night.

"It's what he does." Clarisse shook her head. Her hair almost brushed his chin. He inhaled her scent and almost leaned into her.

"He comes by it honestly," Joseph assured her, pulling at his buzzing ear. "That's what Rico did all those years. Whenever things got too tough up here, he would run down to me and Senor G. Philippe's no different. When he's afraid to face the problem, he runs."

"Well, where do you expect Rupert to run to now?" she snapped, turning to face him, eyes flashing. "You're part of the problem!"

"Do you feel better yelling at me?" he asked pointedly. He wanted desperately to take her in his arms and promise that everything would be all right, but he couldn't – and it wouldn't. "I don't blame you for this, Clarisse. I've loved you for far longer than-"

"Are you trying to make me feel guilty about that, too?"

Her words hung in the air between them, the silence left in their wake gravid. With a horrendous squeal and screech and crash, the silence broke into startled thunder.

"Stay here," he ordered, running out of the room, but she was barely a step behind him.

He dashed down the family hall and through the palace to the front entrance, darting past curious night shift staff who clutched at him seeking answers and bleary-eyed day staff wondering if they were under some sort of attack. Shaking them all off, he raced outside, all the while feverishly rattling instructions into his mouthpiece. His right ear hummed with acknowledgements from his staff while his left ear buzzed still more loudly. By the time he reached the twisted remains of Philippe's Maserati, Shades was running beside him.

The palace emergency services team had arrived, but Joseph wondered dismally if they'd even be needed. The car had collided off the garden wall; he could see the long gash across the stones and a corresponding scrape along the passenger side of the car. It had evidently flipped and rolled, denting the roof horribly, and then caromed into a large oak tree. All this Joseph processed on the run, part of him operating on automatic in the face of a security breach; the other part focused solely on Rico's bloody head, which he could dimly see slumped against the steering wheel.

Shoving an emergency technician roughly aside, he wrenched open the battered driver's door. Rico was bleeding in half a dozen places; his head seemed to be twisted oddly. His eyes flickered to his left and Joseph looked across to see Philippe hunched against the passenger door, blood trickling from his head to smear against the inside of the window.

"Oh, God," Rico whispered hoarsely. "That was stupid." His eyes flicked back to settle on Joseph. "I'm sorry, Joe," he croaked. "Tell Clarisse I'm sorry."

His last breath rattled in his chest as he slowly exhaled. The emergency tech yanked him back, shouting, "Senor del Lago, _please_!" Another tech was already yanking open the passenger door and carefully easing Philippe onto a stretcher.

Activity swirled around him. The emergency crew raced to revive Rico, continuing even as they loaded his body into the waiting ambulance, refusing to admit defeat. A second ambulance had just arrived for Philippe, its lights still flashing an eerie staccato and its sirens wailing. Security staff – _where had they all been when both men had climbed into the same vehicle!_ --held back dozens of curious onlookers. Eager, and yet surprisingly somber press crews raced down the drive from the main gate. Clarisse slipped past him, radiating shock, hurt, betrayal, and guilt. After being firmly but respectfully denied her request to sit with her son, she just as firmly booted a medical tech from the front seat and joined the driver for the trip to the hospital in Pyrus. Shades was shouting instructions into his mouthpiece; Joseph could see his assistant's lips moving, but couldn't hear the words over the sirens and the droning buzz in his ear. Black security escort cars pulled up around the fringes of the growing crowd. The earth continued to spin on its axis, but Joseph stood rooted at its center, wondering why no one else seemed to notice that the axis had shifted – that the world was no longer the same.

"Joe," Shades's voice was low and intense. "I've got us a car." The younger man tugged him toward a waiting vehicle.

Coming to himself, Joseph shrugged him off and followed Clarisse's lead, pulling the med tech from the front of Rico's ambulance just as it started to roll forward.


End file.
